For All the Wrong Reasons (31 page)

*   *   *

“We have to get back to the office,” Diana said, reluctantly.

She kept her head down. She had showered and dressed again, but she felt self-conscious in Michael's presence. She had had no idea that sex could be like that.

His cock impaled her. There was no way she could think about something else, like she had done with Ernie. His hands were on her, his fingers rubbing the slick nub of her through the silky downy fur even as he took her, turning her over, licking her breasts, directing her body for his pleasure. She had never felt so richly enjoyed. She had come over and over again, little crashing orgasms just teasing her, preparing her, for the way he made her yield to him right before he came, so she was only aware of the sweet block of pressure in her groin and pussy, the way it built up relentlessly driving her forward, filling her mind totally with his cock, his chest, his strong arms, until it exploded in a white-hot burst across her skin, leaving her drained and panting.

She was astonished to have felt that way. She could hardly look him in the face. Michael had tried to kiss her as she recovered, but she felt shy and drew back from him, going to wash. What must he think of me? she wondered. What a slut he must think I am. Her body's reaction was a shock, and she had stumbled to the bathroom, reveling in the hot water, the precious few seconds left to her to try and gather her thoughts.

My God, she thought, I'll never be able to look the man in the face again.

“What's the problem?” Michael said to her, after he emerged from the shower. Diana had dressed herself, neatly buttoning up her dress as high as it would go, and tying her hair back in a severe French pleat. She glanced down at the coffee she'd fixed from his machine, trying to avoid staring at the thickly muscled chest, the hard, defined biceps. What was he really? Just a jock. I mustn't let myself be fazed by a jock, Diana thought.

Her newfound career was important to her. At Imperial, she'd learned she was more than a pretty face. It surprised her that she really didn't want to jeopardize that.

And she was scared by how totally her body had surrendered to him. Already she could feel a slight tightness between her legs. Almost—how ridiculous!—as though she wanted more.

“Nothing. We're late for work,” Diana said. “They'll be expecting us back in the office.”

He turned his back to her and shrugged off the towel, dressing. Diana swallowed hard. The lines from his shoulders to the small of his back were chiseled like some Renaissance statue in marble. His behind was flat and totally hard. He was huge. She looked at the fresh shirt he was pulling on and wondered if he'd had it specially made.

“You're right,” he said easily. “We'll get in a cab and get right back.”

She bit her lip, pouting. You're right? Was that all he had to say? I don't want it to get weird, Diana thought, but I
do
think he might have argued just a bit.

It wasn't every day a man got to go to bed with a woman like her. Or was it? He was acting as if nothing special had happened.

Diana tossed her head. Well, two could play at that game.

“Good idea,” she agreed.

When the cab pulled up on West Fourth, Michael got out and held the door open for her. Diana nodded slightly; she could barely thank him. Lower Manhattan had slipped past them in complete silence. Michael seemed totally at his ease.

Diana had gazed out at the warehouses, inwardly seething. How the hell could he be so calm? Maybe things like that did happen to Cicero all the time. That was his reputation.

A horrible thought occurred to her. What if she was just another notch on the bedpost? Urgh. A lunchtime quickie, just another conquest?

What was I thinking? she asked herself. I didn't play hard to get. I'm worse than a girl who gives it up on the first date. He didn't even ask me on a date. And Michael is arrogant enough as it is.

It was no use pretending it had been nothing special for her. Diana turned aside from Michael, her back rigid with rejection. She blushed hotly, remembering herself leaping in his arms, gasping and crying out, scratching at him, drenched with sweat. But she couldn't help it. The things he had done to her. The urgent, merciless thrusting of his cock, the sweet pressure of his tongue, his wandering hands.

She bit on her inner cheeks. Well, she couldn't help the way she'd behaved then, but she could help how she behaved now.

I'm going to be the ultimate professional, Diana promised herself.

She leaned forward.

“Turn off the radio,” she snapped. “That music is driving me mad.”

The cabbie jumped to attention. Just as well, Diana thought. In this mood, nobody better mess with me.

She stepped out past Michael and marched into her office, closing the door behind her. There were a number of hot graphics designers on her Rolodex to call. She picked up the phone, determined to drive Michael Cicero and his body right out of her head.

*   *   *

“More champagne, sir?” the stewardess asked.

She was flirting shamelessly, but Felicity was lying there with a Gucci travelers' blindfold wrapped around her eyes, and her hands folded neatly in her lap. She was asleep or pretending to be. The stewardesses could bat their eyelids as much as they liked. Ernie was pleased with her. She had thrown a terrific party for the Ities, schmoozing the old geezers like a seasoned pro, not even forgetting the wives. And she knew exactly when to turn a blind eye.

“I thought the bar closed an hour ago,” Ernie said, examining the stewardess's breasts.

She thrust them forward a bit more. “Well yes, Mr. Foxton, that's true as far as our regular first-class passengers go.” She dropped her voice. “For our most special guests, we always make exceptions.”

“You can get me another glass of rosé,” Ernie agreed. He didn't really want it, but it tickled him to get what other people couldn't. Really, the world was just his toy shop.

The Bertaloni deal would go through, and Blakely's would have money to spare. Games and toys were big business, and he didn't see why he should be stuck with just books. The more reach you had, the more respect you got. Airlines were just one example. They made their profits on big business, rich travelers like him who would happily pay outrageous prices for a seat that flipped down all the way. Idly, he wondered whether if he took the air hostess upstairs to the private bathroom she'd fuck him right there, or if she'd just slip him her hotel room number instead? Either way, it was too much bother. He could have Jung-Li any time he liked without having to lift a finger.

The girl was leaning over him, pouring out a thin stream of pink champagne that filled up his crystal glass, spitting and bubbling. Ernie reached out and picked up the stem in his thin fingers. Realizing she was dismissed, the woman melted away.

He sipped, allowing the chill wine to fizzle on his tongue. Once, a long time ago, champagne had been a treat luxurious beyond imagining. Back when he was a teenager, Asti Spumante was about all he could manage. Now it was routine, almost boring. Ernie had educated himself on the better houses, even memorizing a list of the superlative years. Truth was, it all tasted the same to him. But now he knew to bitch if the stuff was non-vintage, he could say he wouldn't clean his oven with Lanson. Ernie hated being laughed at with a passion.

The plane was banking and turning over Canada, very close to New York. He'd called Jack Fineman with instructions. First, there was the press conference to announce his latest triumph. But after that, Fineman was going to update him. Apparently, there was news on Cicero, and it included a report on his ex-wife. Ernie didn't much care what Diana did; she was out of his hair, and she was never coming back into the social scene. Felicity would see to that. Besides, Diana had no serious cash, and in America, if you didn't have money, you weren't worth a thing. Diana would never embarrass him anymore. He didn't think Michael would, either.

But he wasn't going to underestimate the little prick. Once I crush people, Ernie thought, they better stay crushed. Fineman would help him see that they did.

*   *   *

The sun dipped behind the long row of brownstones, flooding rich golden light through the trees outside their windows. Diana tidied up her papers and stacked them neatly on her desk. She had managed to bury herself in her work all day long, calling programmers, supervising the marketing division, writing out copy for the latest batch of games, and running to the water cooler whenever Michael emerged into her area. It hadn't been as hard as she had feared. The company was blowing up, and every day her phone lines and fax machine buzzed off the hook. There was no time to think about what he'd done to her this afternoon, no time to obsess over his flat stomach, his brawny arms, the way his hands pressed and squeezed every inch of her butt. But those thoughts were returning now. As soon as the hubbub of the day died down, Diana felt her body start to betray her.

That's OK, she told herself. I'll get out of here right away. Maybe go down to Bliss and get a massage, or pop up to Bergdorf's for my eyebrows. Anything to get away from him. Hurriedly she packed her papers into her briefcase and turned to leave. Michael was blocking the doorway.

“Can I help you with something?” Diana asked. She was rather proud of herself. She sounded brisk and impersonally friendly. Why let him know he had upset her equilibrium?

“Yes, you can.”

“Of course. Just a second, I'll boot the computer up again.”

“That's not what I meant.” He smiled at her confidently. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Well, I'm—I'm—”

Diana stammered and cursed herself. Why couldn't she think of something? Her mind had gone blank.

“Would you like to have dinner? I know a great place on Bleecker Street,” he said. Diana blushed.

“Look, Michael. I think you should know that I don't normally do this kind of thing.” The instant she said it she felt more awkward than ever. I don't normally do this kind of thing. I'm not that kind of girl. How many women had said that after panting in his arms?

His brows lifted. “You don't normally eat dinner? You should. You've been looking a little skinny lately.”

“You know what I mean. I think we should lay down some ground rules.”

“Yeah, I'm sure you do.” He gave her a wink. A wink! “We'll do that, OK? At dinner.”

“I can't.” Be firm, Diana told herself. “I need to go home and have a shower and change. I'm so sticky.”

“Mmm, I know you are,” Michael said, his gaze lingering on her skin. “So I'll pick you up at eight.”

Diana flushed scarlet. “I don't know … I think…”

“You think too much,” he said, and walked out.

TWENTY-NINE

“Michael, I have a suggestion to make,” Diana said.

She brushed her long, dark hair behind her shoulders and regarded him over the edge of her bone-china cup of English tea. Since they'd started dating, Diana had felt confident enough to go back to her natural color. At first it was a shock, sitting in Oribe's gilt decorated salon, and watching the bright platinum soften and cool through red right down to a rich chestnut.

“You hate eet, no?” her colorist asked, dismayed.

“No.” Diana could hardly take her eyes from her reflection. “It's natural, it suits my skin. I look five years younger.”

“Well, eef you are happy.” The woman sniffed. In her opinion everybody should be blond. But Mrs. Foxton had refused to be swayed. Didn't she read the gossip columns? Conchita wasn't discreet, but even she shrank from pointing out that Felicity Metson, the new lady in Ernest Foxton's life, was standard-issue New York: younger, blonder and skinnier than Diana. Maybe she was depressed, now that the divorce was finalized, and Felicity was flashing that six-carat rock in front of whatever camera happened to be pointed her way.

But that would not explain why, whenever her client came in for a treatment, she was glowing, her skin shining, her eyes bright. Whatever Diana had in the way of beauty treatments, they must be
very
expensive, Conchita mused, wondering about the size of the settlement.

If Conchita could have seen Diana's beauty secret, sitting across from her in the cramped bistro, she would have been amazed.

Michael Cicero was gulping coffee and drinking in Diana at the same time. Even though she was with him every night and he reached for her in the morning, he couldn't get enough of her. It was like trying to hold a bubble in a cage; he put up the bars of his expectations and she floated past them.

They were having breakfast together outside his apartment. He wore a black suit, tailor-made for him by Gieves & Hawkes in England. Since Imperial's games had started selling, he could afford it. Cicero detested luxury for its own sake, but he liked looking professional. Think Sicilian, dress British. His shirts, shoes and suits were always pristine. A discreet pair of plain gold cuff links glinted in the morning light.

Michael never thought about his appearance, except to require that it be smart. Maybe that was one of the reasons he looked so damn good.

Diana was another matter altogether, though, and it worried him. As Imperial expanded, so had her job. She was his right-hand woman and he paid her commensurately.

Looking at her, he sometimes thought every cent must go on clothes.

Michael was no fashion guru, but he knew about cost. And Diana's things cost plenty. Almost every day, as though to make up for months of relative poverty, she showed up at work in a brand-new outfit. Chanel suits. Prada handbags. Manolo Blahnik shoes. Maybe it was important for all the meetings he sent her to, as Imperial's public face.

But Cicero didn't know. There was still that touch of the pampered princess about Diana. Still, she worked hard, and it was her own money.

Was that why they fought so much? He was doing good, but not that good. Michael regarded Diana. Was she going to turn around and ask him to keep her in the style to which Ernie had gotten her accustomed?