You’ve Been Warned

Chapter 12

I THINK OF IT as my home away from home – never mind that it happens to be inside my apartment. A converted walk-in closet, to be exact. Basically a shoe box.

I step in, close the door behind me, and take a long, deep, stress-releasing breath. Hello, darkness, my old friend.

After the creepy day I’ve had, it’s strange that a narrow, claustrophobic room with black corkboard walls, no windows, and a mere seven watts of light makes me feel at peace.

But that’s why I built this thing in the first place.

My darkroom.

My safe house.

Beyond the joy I derive from developing my own pictures -Call me old-fashioned; no, call me a purist – there’s that wonderful feeling in the darkroom of being able to shut out the rest of the world and all the problems that go with it. Problems – outside! Out!

Inside here, it’s strictly my photography and me.

Okay, let’s do this. Let’s get it over with. Let’s see what’s what.

I turn off my safelight and, in complete darkness, load the rolls of film onto developing reels. Everything is by touch, but I’ve done this so many times I don’t even have to think about it.

With each reel secured in a small processing tank, I’m able to turn the safelight back on. A faint red glow fills the room immediately.

Time for the soup.

One by one, the magic ingredients get added to each tank. Chemical developer followed by water mixed with a pinch of acetic acid followed by a fixer.

If only I could cook like I develop film.

Now comes my usual moment of trepidation, when my heart flutters for a beat or two. It happens with every roll, and it’s certainly happening with these.

As the negatives begin to harden, this is my first chance to see what I’ve got.

If anything, right?

I lean forward a bit and try to harness all seven watts of visibility in the room. The thought of having to relive that terrible scene at the hotel frame by frame makes me more than a little uneasy. But it’s nothing compared to the thought of the shots’ not being there at all.

In this case, I’ll gladly take the lesser of two evils. Scary reality beats no reality.

Through my squinting eyes, the images begin to appear. Shot after shot of the scene, just as I saw it. Just as it happened!

I straighten up and exhale. I didn’t expect to feel this crazily relieved and yet I do. So much so, I almost don’t see it.

There’s something strange about these pictures.

The day’s mystery continues, only it’s getting worse.

And I think that burning smell is back too.

Chapter 13

I IMMEDIATELY PLUNGE the negatives into a holding bath of cold water. My nose practically takes a dip as I lean in for a closer look.

It’s hard to tell exactly what’s wrong with the shots, but something is. That burning smell has definitely returned. I look at my hands… no hives yet.

Amid the stark whites and recessed blacks of the film, there’s something going on – some type of effect taking place.

What, though?

I yank the negatives from the water and grab my magnifying loupe, pressing my eye tight against it.

I study one shot and then slide the loupe to the next. I do this quickly, anxiously, over and over. Study…slide… study…slide.

Finally, I think I see what’s happening. Or at least where it’s happening.

It’s the four body bags.

They look almost…transparent. Is that possible? It’s like I can both see the bags and almost see through them – not to what’s inside, but to what’s beyond.

Of course, the film itself is transparent, but this is different. Each body bag has this kind of lucent quality, not quite see-through while at the same time not entirely filled in.

Somewhere in between.

Weird.

Though explainable, right? My mind spins with the possible causes. Double exposure, sun glare off the metal frames of the gurneys, the body bag material itself. Within seconds, I have a host of somewhat logical explanations for what I see.

But no definitive answer, nothing that makes me feel the least bit better.

So, when in doubt, go big. That’s what I’m thinking as I dispense with a contact sheet and delve right into making an enlargement.

Scanning the shots again, I pull the one with the tightest angle for the most detail.

It takes a few seconds before I realize which one I’ve chosen. Figures!

It’s the last body bag that was wheeled out of the hotel, the one with the moving zipper and the – I don’t even want to think about it.

Besides, that was only in the dream. This is real. This is happening right now, before my eyes.

I fumble with the negative carrier before putting it in the enlarger. I make sure the emulsion side is facing down so as not to get a mirror image. The last thing I need is another glitch!

I work fast. Impatience is such a great motivator. So is fear. Before long I’m staring at an eight-by-ten enlargement of that last body bag. Everything’s bigger, all right.

The problem is, I’m no closer to figuring out what in God’s name is happening. The effect – the transparency – is unlike anything I’ve seen, and I’ve developed a whole lot of photographs in my life.

From the moment I awoke this morning until now, it’s been one big weirdness-palooza. And I hate paloozas!

I glance at my watch. Almost 7:30.Where did the time go?

I decide to make more enlargements. Maybe another shot will reveal something. What I’m really doing, though, is trying to keep my mind off, well, everything that’s happened so far today.

For a while it works. Then, after another hour, it gets the better of me. I leave the darkroom and begin pacing in my living room.

It’s too early for bed. Besides, I’m too wired to sleep. I need to get out of here!

And I know just where to go.

Chapter 14

I STEP OUT of THE CAB in front of the Old Homestead Steak House in the heart of the meatpacking district. As if the location alone isn’t enough to scare off vegetarians, there’s a humongous cow over the entrance. Very subtle.

Who am I to talk?

If there’s a list of what never to do when you’re having an affair, I’m pretty sure crashing your lover’s business dinner is right up there at the top.

I walk into the restaurant and breeze by the maître d’ as if I know where I’m going. I don’t.

In front me there’s a crowded bar and an equally crowded lounge area, beyond which begins the crowded dining room. The way it’s laid out, I can see only the first few tables.

As I make my way to a better view, one thing becomes clear. With its dark wood paneling, leather club chairs, and portions that could choke the Lincoln Tunnel, this is definitely a place for guys. In fact, there are very few gals to be seen.

“May I help you?”

The voice startles me. I turn around to see the maître d’. So much for blowing right by him.

“I’m just looking for someone,” I say.

“Perhaps I can help you.”

“No, that’s okay.”

He glances down at what I’m wearing – a black Elie Tahari waistcoat over jeans and an Armani Exchange sweater. Stylish, perhaps, but not exactly “female executive” attire.

“Really, I insist,” he says.

I more than catch his drift. He’s not asking if he can help me, he’s telling me.

“In that case, his name is Michael Turnbull,” I say. “He comes here fairly often.”

“Yes, of course. Come this way; Mr. Turnbull’s seated in the back with his guests.”

I hesitate. “Actually, would you mind telling him that I’m here?”

“I see. And you are?”

Clearly not his wife.

“Kristin,” I say.

There’s an awkward silence between us.

“I’m his assistant,” I tack on. Immediately I regret it.

The maître d’ smiles – a little too knowingly – and disappears into the dining room.

Good one, Kris! Why not just grab a bullhorn and scream out, MISTRESS ALERT! MISTRESS ALERT!

I continue berating myself while I wait for Michael. All I can hope is that he’ll be more surprised than angry and not the other way around.

But it’s not Michael who appears from the dining room a few moments later.

It’s the maître d’ again.

Chapter 15

“HEWHAT? ”

“Mr. Turnbull asked that you join him at his table,” repeats the maître d’.

I look at the guy so sideways I nearly lose my balance. “Are you sure about that?”

“Very.”

The next thing I know I’m being led to the back of the dining room. It dawns on me. This is sooo Michael.

So confident. So in control.

So much why I love him.

It’s no surprise he runs such a successful hedge fund. He never met a risk he couldn’t minimize.

“Ah, there she is!” he says.

It’s a large round table and yet there’s little doubt as to who’s sitting at the head. Michael stands up from his chair, flashing his killer smile. As he walks over to me, wineglass in hand, he throws the maître d’ a quick wink as if to say, I’ll take it from here.

He certainly does.

“Kristin, come meet my friends from the Royal Queen Bank of Sweden.” Michael turns to the table and actually puts his arm around me. “Gentlemen!” he announces. “Jag vill att ni alla möter min sekreterare, Kristin.”

I blush slightly as the entire group – all men and each blonder than the next – proceeds to raise wineglasses and smile. They don’t look like bankers; they look like a rowing team.

An inebriated one at that.

I wait for the guys to resume their revelry before leaning toward Michael and whispering, “What did you say to them?”

“I told them you were my love slave.”

“Ouch. A little too close to the truth, don’t you think?”

“I’m kidding,” he says. “I introduced you as my secretary. It is what you told the maître d’, after all.”

“Sorry about that. Not too believable, huh? I said ‘assistant,’ by the way.”

“Better than claiming to be my niece, I suppose.”

“Funny, the thought did cross my mind.”

Michael shakes his head, amused. “Hey, kiddo, I’m forty-two, not sixty-two.”

“Thank God for that,” I say.

I watch him calmly take a sip of his red wine, his hand steady as a rock. Amazing. Not only doesn’t he flinch when I unexpectedly appear at his business dinner, he invites me back and introduces me to his clients, all nine of them.

That’s balls.

That’s Michael.

“So, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Madame Secretary?” he asks.

“I needed to see you,” I say. I don’t elaborate, of course. I can’t get into it right here. I wouldn’t even know where to start.

“You know I was going to call you later, right?”

“Yes.” I half smile. “I guess I couldn’t wait.” I pant a little against his ear.

“Ooh, I like the sound of that. Check, please. ”

Before I can say anything more, Michael turns back to the table and shows off some more of his Swedish. Again, I have no idea what he’s saying.

But when he finishes, everyone reaches for a pen.

Chapter 16

“WHAT DID YOU SAY to them this time?” I ask.

I’m following Michael out of the dining room. He answers over his shoulder, “I’ll tell you in the limo.”

We bolt from the restaurant and Michael takes my hand. Then he lets go right away – and starts to yell.

Not at me, though. He’s screaming at a street person urinating against the side of the building. “You piece of shit, you moron, you walking obscenity!”

He pushes the man, and his face hits the brick wall. I look away. This is the thing about Michael that I don’t like at all – his temper. It doesn’t show itself often, but when it does, look out.

I walk on ahead and he catches up, takes my hand again. “Sorry, Kris, sorry,” he whispers. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

A little way down the street, his driver, Vincent, is already out of the company limousine and he opens the rear door for us. I didn’t even notice he was parked there when I arrived.

“Here, Vin,” says Michael, handing him a folded hundred-dollar bill. “Can you buy me a pack of Luckies, please?” Michael doesn’t smoke.

Vincent, a large man who looks as if he just walked off the set of The Sopranos, gives a quick and firm nod. Enough said. He closes the door behind us and promptly gets lost.

Michael and I settle into the plush leather backseat. He dims the lights so they’re just right.

“Alone at last,” he says, stroking my hair. “I’m really sorry about back there.”

“It’s okay. You’re too protective, that’s all.” I give him a playful poke to the chest. “Okay, so now tell me: why did everyone at the table offer you a pen?”

“It’s called, God is in the details.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Michael unbuttons my jacket and begins to kiss my neck. He’s a terrifically good kisser, and massager, and tickler.

“I told them my secretary had brought some contracts that I’d forgotten to sign earlier today back at the office.”

He slides his hand underneath my sweater, unhooking my bra.

“Then, for good measure, I told them I didn’t have a pen on me. Suddenly, they’re all so busy looking for one that they never bother to wonder if I’m actually telling the truth.”

He cups my left breast, caressing it slowly. He’s a good breast cupper and caresser too. Michael definitely has the touch.

“That’s what separates the good liars from the bad ones – going the extra mile, adding that little nuance. Details, my dear.”

“You’re crazy, you know that?” I say.

“Crazy for you, anyway.”

Then Michael reaches down and begins to unbutton my jeans. I can feel myself getting wet and incredibly hot.

Wait. Stop. Hold it.

“Michael, there’s something I have to tell you about -”

But I only get partway into the sentence before he covers my mouth with his. He kisses me deep and hard, and I get caught up even more in the moment. He feels so good, and I feel so safe in his arms. And, need I say, sane.

We fall back against the length of the seat, the leather cool and enticing to the touch. He pulls off my jeans, and I help him out of his trousers. His hand slowly travels up my thighs, over my stomach, around my chest, his fingers barely grazing my skin.

“God, you’re amazing,” he says. “So soft, so sweet. So not Penley.”

I wrap my legs around Michael tightly as he enters me, and I don’t let go of him until I come.

I feel dizzy and wonderful and I never want the feeling to end.

Not ever.

This is no dream.

Chapter 17

“SO, WHAT DID YOU WANT to tell me?” asks Michael, tucking in his shirt. “Did something happen today? Something good, I hope. That gallery called?”

But somehow I don’t feel like a postsex conversation. Honestly, what happened today seems too crazy to talk about now. I feel embarrassed. I’m also whipped.

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” I say. “You’ve got to get back to your dinner.”

He grasps my hand. “Are you sure?”

I nod. “Pens or no pens, your guests might be a little suspicious by now.”

“That, or just more drunk.”

I laugh and he smiles. God, I’m still helpless in front of that smile of his.

Michael pages Vincent to have him come back and drive me home. Putting down his BlackBerry, he begins to fidget with his tie.

“Here,” I say. “Let me do that.”

As I flip up his collar and straighten the knot – always a double Windsor – he gently caresses my cheek.

“I love you. I adore you. You know that, right?” he asks.

“Do I?”

“You better.”

I give him “the Look,” the same look I’ve been giving him for months now. He knows what’s coming next and playfully rolls his eyes.

“Go ahead and say it, Kris.”

You bet I will.

I lean over, whispering in his ear the two words that will make all the difference – the one thing he absolutely needs to do.

“Dump Penley.”

For some added incentive, I gently lick his ear and blow. He recoils like a little boy being tickled. I kind of like that too, his vulnerability at times.

“I’m working on it,” he assures me.

“Truly?”

“Truly.” He reaches into his pocket. “And in the meantime, there’s this.”

He pulls out a narrow rectangular case – red leather with a white bow.

I can feel the smile breaking out on my face. “Oh, you’re scoring some huge points tonight, Turnbull!”

“I do play to win, don’t I?” He places it in my hand. “And no, it’s not a pen.”

It certainly isn’t.

Slowly, I open the elegant case, the hinges providing just enough tantalizing resistance.

Then I stare in disbelief.

It’s a bracelet. A diamond-and-sapphire bracelet! The sparkle is so bright my hands are glowing.

“It’s so beautiful!” I gush.

“Just like you,” says Michael. “Here, put it on. No, let me do it for you.”

He gently snaps it around my wrist, and I can’t take my eyes off it. Partly because I love it, but mostly because it’s from him.

“So, do you like it?” he asks. Then his voice becomes low and soft. “I’m always afraid when I pick out things for you. I want you to be happy.”

“I love it! I love you! ”

“Good answer.”

I kiss and hug him, squeezing tight. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Let me see that wink of yours,” Michael says.

So of course I wink, my killer wink.

“Just promise me one thing,” he says with a grin.

“What’s that?”

“Don’t wear it to work.”

Chapter 18

I KEEP STARING at my stunning, unbelievably beautiful bracelet as Vincent drives me home.

Four diamonds… two sapphires… four diamonds… two sapphires… all the way around my wrist. A perfect circle.

Well done, Michael!

It’s almost enough to make me forget why I came rushing down to see him in the first place. Not quite, but almost. I’m certainly glad I did, though. Already, my awful day seems like a long time ago. That’s a very good thing.

The limo eases to a stop at a red light, and Vincent asks me if the temperature is okay “back dere.”

I glance up at the nape of his thick neck, where a jagged scar protrudes from beneath his shirt collar. “It’s fine,” I answer. “No, it’s perfect. Thank you for asking, Vincent.”

He’s driven me home a handful of times, and we’ve yet to have what could be considered an actual conversation, though he’s always very nice to me. It’s funny how big guys like him are never much for small talk.

Then again, it could also be due to my feeling a bit awkward around him. I mean, he knows what’s going on. In a way, he’s a conspirator.

Michael says he trusts “the big guy” more than anyone, and by all indications, he has every reason to. Vincent has been his driver for over nine years. Not only does he predate me, he predates Penley.

Still, it makes me a little uncomfortable that he knows about us, that anybody does.

We ride the remaining blocks in silence, and my eyes take turns between the bracelet and the view out my window. The glistening lights, the people, the buildings – the city can be so hypnotic at night.

“Here we are, Ms. Burns.”

As he always does, Vincent steps out and opens the door for me in front of my building. I take his arm at the biceps and he guides me to the curb.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You’re welcome.”

Closing the door behind me, Vincent is about to climb back into the limo. I feel as if I need to say something, though I’m not sure what. Anything, I suppose, to ease the awkwardness. It’s about time we said something beyond general niceties.

“Can I ask you a question, Vincent?”

He turns to me. “Yes, Ms. Burns?”

I sputter for a moment. Then some words come. “Do you like your job?”

“Yes, very much so,” he says. “Mr. Turnbull is a good boss.”

“I’m sure he is. I know he trusts you a great deal.”

He nods.

“You’re pretty loyal to him, aren’t you?” I ask.

Vincent pauses for a second. He’s probably not sure where this is going, and to be honest, neither am I.

“Extremely loyal,” he answers.

“That’s important.”

“Yes, it is, Ms. Burns.” He folds his arms. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him.”

“Good answer,” I say.