For All the Wrong Reasons (14 page)

“Thanks. I will. Don't be too long.” Diana said, pressing his shoulders and gliding off.

Ernie waited until he heard the bedroom door shut, then picked up his cell phone and dialed Mira's number from memory. If he was lucky, his mistress would be home, and maybe order him to another early morning rendezvous tomorrow.

THIRTEEN

The alarm buzzed in the darkness, and for a few seconds Diana didn't recognize the sound. She lay sprawled in her silk sheets, trying to work out, half conscious, why that horrible noise wouldn't stop.

Ernie's bare foot pushed at her, and with a start, Diana sat up. Groggily she hit the button to turn the wretched thing off. In the darkness of early morning, the luminous dials on the clock silently told her it was five fifty
A.M.
The bedroom was chilly, and her sheets and pillows seemed blissfully, temptingly soft and warm. For a second she hesitated, but only for a second. Diana glanced back at her husband, snoring in the sheets, and thought of Mira Chen's nasty little smile. She, Diana Foxton, was not the type to give up so easily. She jumped out of bed and staggered into the shower.

They had separate bathrooms, because Diana couldn't stand to have Ernie watching her toilette. A woman must cultivate an air of mystery. When she needed to floss, or pluck her eyebrows, he didn't need to watch, did he? She loved to appear perfectly groomed and pulled-together at all times. She turned the heavy brass shower knobs to her pre-programmed temperature setting and clicked the water pressure to power. Time to wake up. The jets, steaming and brutal, hissed into action, and Diana slid aside the frosted glass doors and stepped in.

Ah! Normally she adored her black marble, roomy shower, with its inlaid gold and silver stars that made you feel as though you were washing yourself in the night sky, but today the water was invigorating and harsh. Her shoulders and back were pummeled into wakefulness, and little rivulets gushed down over her forehead and across her nose and mouth. Her sleepiness evaporated, and Diana congratulated herself on her willpower as she reached for the shampoo. True, they were really not far from the office here, and she had a chauffeur on twenty-four-hour call, so she wouldn't have to wait for a taxi. But I left enough time to dress and make-up, Diana thought. Pleasant visions of herself gliding beautifully into Michael Cicero's office, immaculately presented, drove her on. That bastard had more or less offered her the job as a joke. He didn't expect to see her on time, let alone put together. But I'll show him, Diana thought, excitedly.

She took her time in her gilt and marble sanctuary. Hair was easy—she always went for a glossy, well-conditioned, natural look. Make-up was somewhat more difficult. At
Vogue
of course there was the option to be fashionable. In a regular office, it probably wouldn't do to be daring. Languidly, Diana settled on a pretty, neutral look, a sheer mousse foundation, soft berry lips, nothing but mascara on the eyes with a touch of concealer to mask the terrible sleep deprivation. The bathroom window looked out past her terrace to Central Park, and as dawn hit the New York skyline, revealing a few ant-like figures making their morning circular rounds past the lake, Diana rubbed La Prairie moisturiser into her shapely calves and told herself that being a working woman wasn't at all bad.

She buzzed the kitchen and told Paula, the cook, to have some vanilla coffee perking and warm her up a croissant. All this fashion was giving her an appetite. She finished blow-drying her hair, smoothed it with a touch of shiner, and selected the belted navy shirtdress that was the most appropriate thing for work that she had in her wardrobe. Clothes shopping would need to be after hours or at the weekend. Maybe she'd pick up a nice burgundy leather briefcase from Coach while she was at it.

Finally, she was ready. She spritzed herself with Clinique's Aromatics Elixir, clip-clipped as quietly as she could on her high blue strappy Manolos out of the bedroom, and went downstairs to bid Paula good morning and pick at her breakfast. Freshly squeezed juice, fragrant coffee and a small croissant, just to settle her stomach. After Paula had left the room, Diana, delicately sipping from her cup, regarded her reflection with the utmost approval. Everything worked magnificently together. In fact, she looked very like Grace Kelly.

Yes, Diana told herself. Being a working woman would be fun, fun, fun!

*   *   *

Michael awoke at quarter past seven in the way he liked best, which was to say Iris's lips were wrapped around his cock, and her tongue was flickering over the head of it. To be honest it was a little late for him to be awake; a hangover from busting this chick up for hours the night before, he guessed. But Iris's tongue was flickering over his penis in that soft, feather-light, sexy way she had, darting over the tiny ridge of skin that he loved a girl's lips on so much, then sliding her mouth down the whole length of him. Yeah, now he was awake. His fingers tightened in her hair. Oh, man, was she ever good at this. A faint question as to how exactly she had gotten so good at it danced in the back of his mind, but it was a distracting thought, and he tried to squash it. She was a smartly dressed, clever enough chick, with a pretty face and a body he'd have liked to add twenty pounds to, but it wasn't all that bad. She was a bit earnest, but she was a nice girl. He thought so. Well, sure, she qualified. Very few girls resisted Michael's full court press for any length of time; normally he measured it in hours, not dates. So Michael felt hopeful about this one. Though he never articulated the thought to himself, he respected the situation of the family, and one day, maybe, just maybe, he'd like to be married. There were a hundred girls around in New York he could fuck—married girls, engaged girls, girls who propositioned you right to your face—a huge turn-off—girls dating other guys, and just the common or garden variety of girl who would agree to every nasty little thing you suggested right away, before she even knew your last name. He'd fucked some of these girls. It used to be all of these girls. When he was a bit younger, Michael had carried a full condom pack in his hip pocket at all times. But now, the girls just looked more tired, less appealing. When he woke up with one, it felt cheap, maybe a little dirty. Like when you ate a full box of Cracker Jacks out at a ball game and then felt sick later. Plus, there was the ever more annoying problem of how to get them out of the bed, the apartment, and his life. He'd even stopped giving out his number, so he didn't have to deal with the pleading, whimpering phone calls. Iris had put a stop to all that. She qualified as a nice girl so he didn't like to speculate how she'd become as good as she was at what she was doing right now.

Iris smirked and angled her head backward and took him deeper into her throat, and Michael groaned. Somehow it was no longer quite so important to keep one eye on the clock. Damn. Feel that sucking. His cock was always more awake than he was in the mornings anyway.

“I gotta go,” he breathed.

“Not right yet, baby.” She broke off and lifted those puppy-dog eyes to his.

“Stop talking,” Michael growled. He pulled her lips back onto him and spread his thick, hard thighs on the bed. Her bleached-blond hair was bobbing up and down in an amazingly distracting way.

Wasn't he doing something new at work this morning? He didn't remember. He didn't remember anything. He didn't even know where he was. There was nothing on his mind but his hard thickness, and Iris's clever, eager mouth surrounding and sucking him.

Michael gasped and abandoned himself to the moment. This was better than an alarm clock any day.

*   *   *

He got out of the subway on Seventh and Fiftieth an hour later, washed, shaved, newly suited, and with his mind cleared and body relaxed. Iris and he had a date that night, but he wasn't thinking about her anymore. She was filed away in the back of his brain. The commuters around him marched past up the grimy steps and poured out into midtown, everybody intent on the day's hustle ahead, getting those dollars, making that sky-high rent roll. How was it that he'd signed a deal that upped his compensation to sixty grand a year, Michael asked himself, and yet his financial problems were worse than ever?

He pushed open the door to the Blakely's building and exchanged morning greetings with the security guard. Michael made a point of asking how people were doing. When he'd been a doorman as one of his four jobs working through college, people had treated him like a piece of furniture, even people he saw day in, day out, for months. Cicero never let people push him around, but he reckoned politeness didn't cost a dime. And in Manhattan, politeness made you stand out, too.

The elevator came and he looked over his half-decent suit. The first thing he'd done when the money came in was to get a bank loan and invest in some clothes. Shoes and suits did not come cheap. Then there was the new apartment; for two thousand a month he got a tiny, first-floor, one bedroom TriBeCa walkup with a minute alcove that served as a den, but it was in a good location. From now on he was going places, and he should start with a good address, personal comfort was secondary. The apartment had space for one double bed, and that was about all he needed. His bills were already starting to mount, so he had very little stuff. Hell, minimalism was supposed to be fashionable anyway. Not that Michael really cared. It suited him to live where he did. Iris had expressed surprise the first time he took her home, but when she saw his expression, she'd wisely concluded that maybe she should shut up.

The fourth floor was deserted, as usual. Michael racked his brain. Something was meant to be different today. What was it? He asked Joey to ride up with the keys, and remembered as he unlocked and switched the lights on: Diana Foxton was meant to be here. Michael grinned privately to himself. What was more likely, he wondered, that she'd be late, or that she wouldn't come at all?

The sooner she realized that it was a foolish idea, the better. He really didn't need a time waster in the office.

*   *   *

Diana swung her heels delicately out of the back door of the Bentley, which Richard was holding open for her. She smiled and tipped him her usual ten dollars, and looked up at the Blakely's building. This was a first, wasn't it? To come here and not be picking Ernie up? She pushed through the heavy glass doors, speed-dialing Felicity on her cell phone as she did so.

“Darling, are you awake? No?”

Diana punched the elevator button as Joey Petano, on the front desk, drank in the itsy-bitsy heels and clinging silk dress.

Felicity sat up in her bed, cell phone pressed to her ear. When Diana called, she had to be awake. Even at this ungodly hour.

“For you, of course I am, Di, sweetie. What's new? More bad behavior from Ernie?”

“No, no. He's being a lamb. He said it was a man he met the other morning. Anyway, I have got myself a job, working for an affiliate company in the Blakely's building.”

“Really.” Felicity's heart sank. If Ernie had got her a job so that she could be close to him, actually in his office, maybe the marriage wasn't shaky—maybe their intelligence was all wrong.

“Yes. Not on his floor, about twelve stories below … and he had nothing to do with it, I got it myself.”

“That's wonderful,” Felicity said, her face creasing in a genuine smile. She twitched open her curtains to let the morning light in. “A new start for you, dear. What does Ernie think of all this?”

“He thinks I'll quit, but I won't. Anyway, must dash, the elevator's here and it'll cut me off.”

“Do call me later, sweetie,” Felicity suggested kindly, as her friend hung up.

She relaxed against her pillows. That meant Ernie would be at home on his own right now. Languidly, Felicity punched the speed-dial for the Foxtons' private number.

*   *   *

Diana stepped off the elevator at the fourth floor. The office lights were on; maybe some inefficient cleaner had left them on the night before. The door had a small, unostentatious plaque next to it.
Green Eggs Books. A Blakely's Affiliate Company.
Not very impressive, frankly. Nothing like the bronze etched plate and statuary that greeted the visitor to the main Blakely's office, with her husband's name emblazoned all over it. She would have to see what she could do about that.

She pushed open the door and looked around, disappointed. Judging from the way Cicero had been dressed she assumed he would at least have come into a little cash. These offices were clean, spare, functional and little else. Architectural plans were mounted on the walls, which were cream and, as she peeked into the individually locked offices, she noted that the furniture was some kind of plain, rather old-fashioned brown wood. Sure, it was light and airy, but couldn't they have been a little more extravagant, a bit more imaginative? She'd soon persuade Cicero that her touch was needed to brighten the place up and—

“Nice to see you, at last.”

Diana jumped out of her skin and spun around. There he was, lounging against the only open door in the whole place. He looked relaxed, confident and cocky. One dark eyebrow was raised as he examined her outfit.

“What are you doing here?” she gasped. “You scared me.”

“I scare a lot of people. I don't see why I should scare you, though. It's eight twenty-five.”

“I'm not late,” Diana said defensively, wondering how long he'd been standing there. Had he watched her raising herself on tiptoe peeking in through all the windows? She blushed. “You said eight thirty.”

“I said
I
would be here at eight thirty, and therefore you should be in at quarter past. You're ten minutes late.”

Normally she'd have about an hour and a half left to lie in bed right now. Diana swallowed. “I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

Michael registered somewhere deep down that she hadn't offered him an excuse, but he wasn't all that mollified. The girl was outrageously, scandalously beautiful. What did she think she was doing, turning up at his office looking like that? It was a good thing Iris had been busy this morning, he told himself, or he'd very definitely have his concentration shot all day.