For All the Wrong Reasons (23 page)

Diana's back tensed up. He grinned as he saw the aggravation writ large on her pretty face. He fantasized briefly about sliding that skirt up over the curves of her butt, bending her forward over his desk, and gently palming her until she was begging him to stick it in her.

“I don't think I can be asked to handle anything more,” Diana said. “I work hard enough as it is.”

Cicero handed her the letters and gave her an amazingly annoying wink. “Yeah, well, I don't think so. Be in tomorrow at eight.”

TWENTY-ONE

“As far as I can see, Mrs. Metson is correct.”

Ernie smiled at Sir Angus Carter. He had that plummy aristocratic English voice that Ernie, the barrow-boy, always detested. Fucking snobs. Diana was from that same snob-ridden class. But he couldn't fault the words that were coming out of Sir Angus's mouth, even if the sound of them was grating.

Sir Angus shuffled his papers. “Mrs. Foxton has no case whatever in the United Kingdom. She has only been married for seven months, one of which was spent outside the marital home by her decision. She left without word and made no attempt to contact you, Mr. Foxton. Irreconcilable differences … whatever you would like. No judge in the United Kingdom would, in my opinion, award her a penny.”

“She has recently taken a job, too,” Felicity chimed in. Her arm snaked through Ernie's; her blood-red nails rested on his sleeve. She wore a pair of thin, arching high heels and a tight pink dress.

“Indeed.” Sir Angus pushed thin wire-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his aquiline nose. “Which means she will find it hard to claim that Mr. Foxton was intending to support her.”

“I've taken a few preliminary steps myself,” Ernie said. “I've put all her stuff together in boxes, and I transferred all but ten thousand dollars from the joint account. Didn't want to close it. Thought we'd be subtle.”

Subtle,
Sir Angus thought. Subtle? This moneyed oik in front of him was about as subtle as a neon orange ball gown. If Diana Foxton could not be commended on her pre-marital fiscal arrangements, she could be roundly condemned on her taste in men. She would lose millions in this divorce. Personally, he thought it would be a small price to pay to rid oneself of Mr. Ernest Foxton.

“Hmm. I think that is wise. Mrs. Foxton has only one power in this situation. She can contest, and delay, the divorce.”

The American she-hawk with the talons paled. “For how long?”

“For five years,” Sir Angus said gravely.

“Unacceptable.” Felicity jumped to her feet. “There has to be
something
we can do.”

“There is. You can make her an offer. Any lawyer she consults will tell her of her financial position.”

“What about immigration? If she's not Ernie's wife, she doesn't have the right to stay here, does she?”

“Immigration is not my field, madam. I suppose it might be another thing you could threaten her with.”

Ernie rose, feeling magnanimous. “Draw up an offer, Angus—”

The lawyer stiffened. He'd worked hard for that knighthood.

“—and tell her that I'll give her two fifty, American, if she signs the papers, and if she delays over a year, absolutely nothing.” Ernie ignored the pallor of Felicity, beside him. “Tell her I can wait her out. We all can.”

*   *   *

As annoying as Michael Cicero was, Diana felt it was her duty to pop down to the Metropolitan and view the exhibit in case he gave her some snotty test tomorrow morning, and she actually enjoyed it. The color and richness of the nine-hundred-year-old paintings still had the power to amaze and delight. She was moved to go down to St. Patrick's and look at the Catholic cathedral. It was very soothing: the candles glowing, the people kneeling at their devotions, or standing heads bowed in front of fine carved statues of the saints. She felt her soul calmed to the extent that she left, walked to Barnes & Noble on Fifth and bought a novel instead of diving into Saks for some retail therapy. It was ironic, really: the Temple of God next to the Temple of Mammon.

Diana had a sudden desire to be on her own, coupled with a ravenous hunger. She dived into a Friday's which was right next door. It was ideal; absolutely nobody she knew would be seen dead in here. She ordered a greasy cheeseburger and fries, and ate it with a large chocolate milkshake while she read her trashy novel. In fact, for a couple of hours she was able to forget Cicero's demands, Ernie's silence, and her friends' treachery. She pulled her hair out of its snug chignon, and sat reading and people-watching, savoring each crispy peppered fry and sip of creamy chocolate.

She took a cab home, and determined to wash her hair, dress and go out. Maybe she'd call Felicity, the only one who was still talking to her. This was meant to be the city that never slept. There had to be a million fun things for a young woman with money to do.

Almost as soon as she walked through the door, the phone rang. Diana half jumped out of her skin; the phone never rang in her apartment these days. She had gone from the queen of the city to a Trappist monk in one fell swoop. She picked it up, her heart racing. Maybe, at last, Ernie had seen the light.

“Hello?” a soft voice said. “Diana?”

She felt an intense stab of disappointment. It wasn't her husband, it wasn't even Natasha or Jodie. It was only Claire Bryant.

“Hi Claire,” she replied.

“Diana, where have you been?” Her friend sounded cross, which was unlike her. “When you hide out, you really hide out. I've spent weeks trying to find you. In the end I had to call Felicity Metson, and pry it out of her.”

Diana felt slightly guilty. Why hadn't she called Claire? It was true that Claire had made her feel foolish for thinking of work as the ultimate four-letter word, but Claire had always been there for her, when they talked. Her other so-called friends had bailed out when her husband did, except Felicity, of course. But Claire had actually made the effort to find her.

“To be honest, I wanted to be on my own for a little while. Ernie and I are having some … slight troubles.”

“Slight troubles? I heard it was worse than that.” Claire paused. “Look, can I give you some totally unwanted advice?”

Diana sat down on her bed. “Go ahead.”

“You have to see a lawyer and you have to go home. If he's cheating, who knows what the girlfriend is trying to get out of him? Why should you be living in a cramped one-bedroom apartment when you are the wife? Go and see him, don't stand on your pride. And get a good lawyer, just in case.”

A lawyer!

“I'm sure it won't come to that,” Diana protested. “Ernie just needs to see he can't treat me this way. When he asks me home, I'll come.”

“I hope it won't, but you can't leave it all up to him. Look, take this number down. These are my lawyers, and they're very good.”

“But I thought everything was great between you and Josh.”

“It is, but I was in the Girl Scouts. Be prepared, you know. And keep in touch. I'm here for you.”

Diana hung up and was brushing her hair, thoughtfully, up to its normal state of glossy suppleness when the bell rang.

She opened the door.

“Ms. Diana Foxton?” Steve Santuro asked.

He blinked once or twice. Steve served papers all day long—divorce papers, court summonses, notices telling people they were being sued. America was the litigation capital of the world, and Manhattan was the litigation capital of America. Steve made a great living, so he put up with the oaths and curses, the drunken husbands getting nailed for child support, the fat wives getting the elbow. But he'd never served papers on a chick like this.

She was wearing a simple pink cotton dress with little puffy peasant sleeves, and a scoop-neck that revealed high, lovely collarbones and golden skin. She had a thick gold bangle around one wrist, high slides in her hair, long legs, and curves that would make a blind man see. Goddamn, Santuro thought. Her hair was blond and shiny and it looked like it came straight out of a shampoo ad. Any second he expected her to toss it from side to side for the cameras. Her breasts in that thing! Steve felt himself bead with a light sweat. They were soft and fighting to get out of that little blouse. They even looked natural. What woman these days actually stuck with her own tits?

“Mrs. Ernest Foxton,” the vision corrected him.

Ernest Foxton was a damn fool, whoever he was, Steve thought. Perhaps he was gay. Letting go of a peach like this? What a sexy accent, too. He loved the way those Brit chicks spoke.

“Uh. Yeah. Mrs. Foxton, right.” Steve blushed and wanted to get out of there. “I, like, have a delivery for you. Could you sign?”

“Of course,” she said. She smiled with bright white teeth and carefully wrote her name on his board. “What is it? Flowers?”

“No ma'am. I'm afraid not.” Steve went the color of a ripe tomato. “It's some legal stuff.”

He thrust the papers forward awkwardly.

Diana didn't understand. She took the papers and flipped them over. She read the lettering on top. Carter & Carter, Solicitors, Grays' Inn, London. What the hell was this?

“What is this about?” she demanded imperiously.

The spotty little delivery boy cringed and mumbled something about it all being in there.

“Have a good evening, ma'am,” he said, and bolted.

*   *   *

The cab plunged and weaved through the New York traffic like a swallow, ducking in and out of lanes, running lights, blasting the horn. Diana sat in the back, oblivious to the noise and the crowd of people. She was furious to the point where she could see nothing but her white-hot anger. Who the hell did Ernie think he was, exactly? Divorce? Divorce
her,
after seven months? As if she had done something wrong, when he was the one fucking that little hooker in his office in front of everybody. She had been the
perfect
wife and this was how he repaid her. She was Diana Foxton, and she was not the kind of girl you could use up and throw away like a rag doll!

The joint account had nearly a million dollars in it. First thing tomorrow, she would go straight to Tiffany's and buy herself some
serious
jewelry. It was the least Ernie could do. All this time she had been waiting for his apology, to put this unpleasantness behind her, and instead, he'd been doing—this!

He had the gall to offer her a lousy quarter of a million dollars? He was worth ten times that much! He sat in the apartment Diana had selected, in the rooms Diana had designed, on the couch Diana had dug out at great expense and effort, and he offered her peanuts for a quickie divorce?

I'll show him, she thought, curling her small fist. I'll show him what he can expect from a woman like me.

The cab screeched to a halt outside her apartment building. What a blessed relief it was to be pulling up to home, to a decent address! Her so-called friends had never been afraid to visit her
here.
When she'd finished with Ernie, she'd start with them. Diana had visions of the wonderful parties she would throw for a
completely
new set, from which Natasha and Jodie and that bunch of hags would most definitely be excluded.

She threw a twenty down on the seat in front and told the psychotic cabby to keep the change. He didn't argue; Americans never thought there was such a thing as too much money. The cab disappeared in a screech of rubber, and Diana strode into the lobby, ignoring the deferential crawling of the doorman and receptionist, and rode the elevator all the way up to their penthouse. The attendant opened his mouth a couple of times, but closed it again after she shot him a look. Good. She really couldn't be bothered with the opinions of the little people right now.

The doors hissed open and Diana marched out into her stone-floored lobby. There was the sound of low, murmuring voices. Ernie obviously had guests. Well, too damn bad. If ever there was an excuse for a scene, this was it.

She brushed aside the greetings of Consuela and Paula and marched into the drawing room.

Ernie was sitting there, with his arm draped over Felicity Metson. He looked up.

“What are you doing in my apartment?” he said.

*   *   *

Michael moved a large paw through the air, grabbing at Iris. Her breasts were bouncing in that way he loved. Wedged deep inside her, he thrust to the rhythm of his blood. He was muscular and covered with sweat, the way he always got when he fucked. Her ass was resting up against his knees, it was too bony for him, but she wasn't bad. She liked to reach behind him and cup his balls feather-light with those soft fingers as she rode him. Her blond hair moved over her face and trailed across her tits. She was grinding at him energetically, but she kept talking, which aggravated him. He found it hard to get off when she was distracting him like this.

“A—million—dollars,” Iris grunted. “Oh! Oh! And I bet it's just the beginning, too.”

Michael plunged back and forth, angling his cock in the way she loved. “Shut up, honey.”

“You're a genius,” Iris breathed. Her skin was mottling, and he saw her nipples all purple and full with blood. “I always knew you wouldn't stay poor. I knew you weren't a loser.”

Some part of his brain registered her talking, but it was nothing to worry about now. His whole world was the sweet thickness of her wet pussy clamping around him, in and out, involuntarily gripping him. “Just shut up, OK? Shut up.”

“But—it's—so
exciting,
” Iris babbled. “A millionaire!”

Michael growled low in his throat. If she wouldn't shut up, he would shut her up. He lifted her up by her scrawny hipbones, and tilted her slim body backward on his knees, thrusting his cock deep inside her. Yes, he could feel the nubby head of it against the wall of her, that yielding, melting spot which turned any woman crazy. She groaned and tried to buck away from him. Often at first, the sensation was so strong they couldn't take it. Mercilessly he held her in position, and shut his eyes, and thrust and thrust, and now she was gasping and sobbing and shuddering on top of him. He felt her pulse, her groin muscles in spasm around him, contracting in and out, in and out, violently, as he milked her. His orgasm started and he felt his balls shrink small and tight with the pressure, and ruthlessly he kept at it even as she subsided. His world exploded and the release came, so that he wasn't even aware of her or her cries, or anything other than the tightness and pleasure of his cock pumping into her.