Flawless (16 page)

With no close family or even real close friends of his own—his parents had broken up when he was eight, and he’d rarely seen either of them since his teens—Brogan lacked what the shrinks he despised would have referred to as a blueprint for marriage. He loved Diana in the same way that he loved his vintage wine collection or his wardrobe full of exquisitely tailored Savile Row suits. Like them, he treated her with care and respect, protected her fiercely from anyone who threatened to take her from him, and considered his husbandly duties done. She had beautiful homes all over the world, free rein with his credit card, and access to the best designers, beauticians, and hair people in the world. What more could a woman want?

It never occurred to him to be faithful. He considered it contrary to the male nature, an unnecessary and unnatural restriction of his freedoms. But he did all he could to insulate Diana from his mistresses, compartmentalizing his business, social, and married lives as thoroughly as a CIA double agent. To this day, Brogan believed that if only he were able to give her the child she craved, his wife’s life would be happy, fulfilled, and complete. The idea that Diana might want more than simply material and maternal comforts—that she might want intimacy and trust with the man who shared her life and her bed—was one that he’d never grasped, despite her repeated attempts to explain it to him.

An image of a weeping refugee child calling hopelessly for his mother filled the screen. Aware of the tears starting to prick her own eyes, Diana changed channels.
Everybody Loves Raymond
was on, one of her favorite shows, and she soon found herself smiling, lost in the bickering domestic banter between Ray and Deborah. She was so engrossed it took a few moments to register that the intercom buzzer from the lobby was going off.

“Who is it, Rico?” she asked the doorman, getting up to answer it but still keeping half an eye on the TV. “If it’s a delivery, you can sign; I’ll tell Mr. O’Donnell I OK’d it.”

“Ees no delivery, Mrs. O’Donnell. Ees a friend of your ’usband. ’E says he has something very valuable, for your ’usband, and he must speak to you in person. Very important business.”

Diana frowned. In all her years with Brogan he had never once invited a business associate to the apartment, never mind authorized them to discuss anything “very important” with her.

“What’s his name?” she asked.

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, followed by some muffled talking. Eventually Rico’s voice came back on.

“Meester Vincent Van and Go,” he said seriously.

Diana giggled. Who was this clown? “Do you mean van Gogh? Is that what he said his name was?”

“Yes, yes,” the doorman seemed pleased. “He say you know hees work very well. Mr. Vincent.”

“All right,” said Diana, well and truly intrigued by now. “You can send Mr. Vincent up.”

A minute later she heard the elevator whooshing to a halt and its occupant emerging onto the landing. Before he had a chance to knock, she’d opened the door.

“Mr. van Gogh, I presume?”

Danny Meyer grinned, his whole face seeming to open up and burst with life, like a freshly cut grapefruit. “At your service. May I come in?”

Diana hesitated.

“It’s a bit late for that now, don’cha think?” said Danny. “If you thought I was a murderer you shouldn’t ’ave buzzed me up. Besides, look at me. I’ve got nowhere to hide my ax.”

He spread his arms and legs, like someone waiting to be frisked by airport security. In a tightly cut cream linen suit, open-necked shirt, and sandals, he looked more like a dapper war correspondent than a crazed killer. Diana relaxed.

“Hold on,” she said, cocking her head to one side and examining him more closely. “Don’t I know you from somewhere? I’m sure I recognize your face.”

“Danny Meyer,” he said, shaking her hand. “We’ve never met—unless you count our eyes meeting across a crowded Tiffany store in the depths of winter.”

“Ah yes, of course, Tiffany’s,” she said, nodding. “You were there with your brother, right?”

“Never mind my brother,” said Danny hastily. “Just remember, I was the handsome one. Look, can I come in? I’ve got something I’d like to show you.”

Following her into the apartment—fucking hell it was palatial; the couch alone was bigger than his place—he admired her pert bottom in simply cut Gap jeans and the way her clean hair hung loose to her smooth, brown shoulders. He’d half expected her to be Chaneled up to the eyeballs but was glad to see she preferred the casual look at home.

“Is this something to do with my husband?” she asked, leaving him standing in the living room while she wandered into the kitchen. “Would you like some coffee, by the way?”

“No, and no thanks,” Danny called back. “But I’ll have tea if you’ve got some. Only if it’s made with boiling water, though, in a pot. And only if it’s actually tea and not some soy orange leaf bullshit. Otherwise I’m fine.”

Diana reemerged, smiling, and sat on the couch, gesturing for him to do the same. “Maria will do her best. You don’t ask for much, do you?”

It was so long since she’d been alone in the company of another man, or even another person, that she was surprised by how easy and enjoyable she found it to talk to him. There was something warm and reassuring about Danny that put her immediately at ease, despite the oddness of the circumstances.

“So come on,” she said brightly. “What’s all this about? Ridiculous pseudonyms, claiming you have business with my husband.”

“I wanted to see you,” Danny blurted out. “I wasn’t sure I’d get access, so I made up a bit of a story. Everyone told me Brogan guards this place like Fort Knox.”

Diana smiled wryly. “He doesn’t need to. You’d be surprised how few people call on us. But you still haven’t said what it was you wanted to see me about.”

Aware he was blushing, and wishing for the thousandth time he shared Jake’s cool insouciance when it came to beautiful women, Danny fumbled in his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small but infinitely delicate baguette diamond ring.

“I’m in the diamond business,” he said.

“Like Brogan…” mumbled Diana idly, turning the band over between her fingers.

“Well, sort of. I’m much smaller fry,” said Danny truthfully. “Mostly I deal in cut stones, but every now and then a finished piece comes my way that I try to find a home for. Ever since I got my hands on this one”—he swallowed nervously—“I’ve been thinking of you. I can’t explain it really. I just thought it was perfect. For you.”

Diana held the ring up to the light. The setting was antique, she guessed nineteen thirties, and very simple: a white gold rope twist with the baguette glistening above it like a fifty-seven-faceted snowflake. No doubt about it, it was a work of art, and very much to her own, understated taste. It was also the exact opposite of anything Brogan would buy for her.

Turning back to Danny, she looked at him quizzically.

“You came here to sell diamond jewelry? To
me
?”

“I know,” he blushed again, “I’ve lost my marbles, haven’t I? You’ve probably got a million bucks’ worth of ice in your dresser drawer already.”

“Several million,” said Diana matter-of-factly.

“Of course you have,” mumbled Danny. What the fuck had possessed him to come here on such a ridiculous errand? Just because his dreams had been haunted by images of Diana’s sad, radiant face ever since the night of the Tiffany party; because he hadn’t been able to make love to other girls without fantasies of her naked body creeping into his consciousness; that was no reason to show up at the woman’s home like a stalker with a ring so cheap her husband might use it to tip a waiter. She must think him a right deranged prick. “Look, sorry, it was stupid of me,” he said, reaching for the ring. “Another piece of bling is the last thing you need.”

“No, no,” said Diana vehemently, snatching it back. “I love it. I want it, I really do. How much?”

“Er…” Nonplussed, Danny struggled to think of a figure. He’d love to have made a grand romantic gesture and given it to her outright, but he couldn’t afford to, not this month. He was already carrying Jake as it was. “Ten?”

“Ten thousand?” Diana laughed. “Don’t be silly; it’s worth far more than that and you know it. Believe me”—she gestured to the master paintings and priceless artifacts strewn round the apartment like so much Z Gallerie trash—“I’m the last person you should be underselling to. I’ll give you fifteen for it, and even that’s a bargain.”

Danny smiled. “I see you know your diamonds, Mrs. O’Donnell.”

Diana shrugged. “After fifteen years of marriage to Brogan, I ought to.”

“I’ll tell you what.” Taking the ring from her, Danny slipped it back into its royal-blue velvet box. “I’ll let you have it for fifteen grand, on one condition.”

“A condition?” Diana laughed. “Two minutes ago you wanted to sell it for ten!”

“Have dinner with me tonight,” said Danny.

“Excuse me?”

“Dinner. That’s the condition. Have dinner with me tonight. I’ll bring the ring, and we can close the deal over a civilized bottle of Guigal.”

All at once the laugh died on Diana’s lips and the playful sparkle left her eyes, replaced with the same dull, aching stare he remembered so vividly from the Tiffany party.

“I can’t,” she said quietly.

“Why not?”

His voice was gentle and encouraging, but still it took her an age to answer.

“Brogan,” she said eventually. “He wouldn’t like it.”

“So don’t tell him,” said Danny. He made it sound so simple, so unthreatening. “Anyway, he’s traveling, isn’t he?”

“Yeees,” said Diana tentatively, not thinking to wonder how Danny knew this piece of information. “But—”

“Great,” said Danny. “We’ll go somewhere quiet, a little local bistro I know where the food’s good and no one’ll bother us.” Seeing the anxiety etched on her face, he took a leap of faith and rested one hand lightly on her denim-clad knee. “Sweetheart, it’s only dinner. I’m not gonna jump on you, I promise. Much as I might like to.”

Diana hesitated. He was right, of course. How had she, an intelligent, rational woman in her midthirties, reached a point where she was too frightened even to leave the apartment for a simple dinner, just because Brogan was away? She’d become scared of her own shadow these days.

“All right,” she said, letting out a deep, long-held breath. “Fine, I’ll do it. I’ll have dinner with you.”

Only after Danny had left the apartment did the folly of what she had agreed to really hit home. She, Diana O’Donnell, was going on a dinner date with another man, an attractive, flirtatious man. She must be out of her mind! Brogan routinely had
her followed when she went out alone. Even if he didn’t do that this time, what if he called home and no one answered? She’d have to come up with a cover story for where she was—she never went out alone—but her mind had gone a complete, panicked blank.

“Don’t overreact,” she told herself sternly. “You’re meeting a dealer, with a view to buying a ring. It’s no different to walking into a jewelry store.”

Danny’s blue eyes, kind face, and sonorous, deep English accent had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all.

Later that evening, Danny sat alone at a corner table at Jean Paul’s, a minuscule café-cum-bistro around the corner from his apartment, wiping his sweating palms on the tablecloth and wishing he didn’t feel so sick with nerves.

What if she stood him up? It wouldn’t be the end of the world, he told himself. God knew he’d been stood up by enough women in the past. But somehow tonight’s date with Diana—if it was a date; was it a date?—had assumed massive, terrifying significance. He didn’t know what it was about her—that combination of beauty, vulnerability, and a repressed spirit yearning for release—that was so hard to describe, or even capture in his memory. But she’d gotten to him in a way that no woman had since…well, since ever, really.

He was well aware how ridiculous all this was. He barely knew the woman; she was married and way out of his league on almost any scale you cared to measure: wealth, breeding, beauty, and probably brains too. For this reason, he’d said nothing about today’s activities to Jake, or indeed to anyone. If he crashed and burned with Diana, he wanted to do it in private.

“You still wait, or you wanna order now?” The surly, pinch-faced waitress stood sullenly at his elbow awaiting a response.
Danny had been coming to JP’s for years, addicted to the outstanding food and the cozy candlelit atmosphere. But the service was without doubt the worst in all Manhattan.

“I’ll wait,” he said firmly, watching the waitress grimace as though he’d just squirted lemon juice in her eye. “She’s not very late yet. Give us a few more minutes.”

The harridan shuffled off, muttering something half audible about “obviously a no-show” and “waste of a table.” Danny wasn’t a religious man, but he closed his eyes and said a little prayer that she was wrong.

“Sorry I’m late.”

When he opened his eyes again, the first thing he saw was Diana, radiant in a floaty cream lace sundress and sandals, dancing her way through the maze of tables like an angel.

“I know it sounds insane, but I wanted to make sure I wasn’t being followed, so I took a bit of a circuitous route.”