For All the Wrong Reasons (46 page)

“Well, the threat was never said aloud. More like I kinda had to, though. To keep my job,” Tina said.

“You mean it was implicit.”

“Yeah. Implicit, right. Anyway, I fell for him because he was a demon in bed. Hung like a baboon—”

“You don't need to be
quite
so graphic, dear,” Marissa lied, making notes. “Like a baboon. Right. And he was very successful.”

“Yes, but
I
wasn't interested in his money.” Tina tossed her hair. “I was a girl from the Bronx, you know, the old neighborhood. Like Michael. I knew what he needed. But this woman, this little bitch—everybody hates her in our office—she swans in with her limey accent and she marries money, right? That other English guy who dumped her. And she had a heart-to-heart with me about it. She said—”

Tina smiled for the camera. She'd been using Rembrandt toothpaste for the past four days and she was sure it made her teeth look like ivory pearls. The more she told, Marissa had made it clear, the bigger her piece would be and the bigger her picture. Why, Brad Bailey was looking for a girl, wasn't he?

“She said Michael didn't have enough money for her because she had managed to snag Brad Bailey.”

“To ‘snag' him?” Marissa repeated, in transports of joy.

“Yeah, something like that.” The thought of lawyers cast a brief shadow over Tina's joy. “Well, I can't quote exactly.”

“There were no witnesses to this conversation?”

“Just me an' her. She was trying to drive a wedge between me and my man.” Tina sniffed.

Her word against Diana's.
They could repeat every word of it, stick in an “alleged” and they'd be quite safe, Marissa realized.

“She told me though that … that men liked a class act. And I wasn't good enough for a rich man like Michael. She was seeing him the whole time she was going out with Brad, you know. Intruding into our private lives. She used to call and hang up.”

Tina was thoroughly enjoying herself now.

“That must have been emotionally devastating,” Marissa purred.

“Sure. Yes, it was.” Tina took her cue and reached for a Kleenex from the box placed before her, holding it delicately to her bone-dry mascara while the photographer moved around her. “She wrecked the happy home we had together. We were thinking about marriage.”

“Was there any ‘romance' in the office, dear?” Marissa prompted eagerly. How wonderful if she could break that sensational tidbit.

“That was the rumor. I didn't see any,” Tina said regretfully. “But Diana Verity had no skills, nothing, when Michael hired her. That was before I came on board. She was doing my job at first. Which is why she hates me. She feared I would, like, unseat her and stuff.”

Marissa did a creditable job of smothering her laugh into a cough. “Excuse me. Please go on.”

“Anyway, she ‘worked' in Michael's office when he was at her husband's old place. If you ask me, she was the cheating one. He just wanted to get back at her because she was fucking Michael. Why else would he hire her?”

“Why indeed?” Marissa asked thoughtfully. “Could I get you to put your head in your hands, dear? Just like that. Perfect.”

*   *   *

The bell rang. Diana stood, and walked to the door to let Ernie into her home. The morning sun was streaming through the windows, bathing her apartment in light; it set off the oyster-white decor, the plump cushions imported from France stacked on her chaise-longue, the fresh creamy blossoms of white hydrangeas mixed with brilliant blue irises and soft pink sweet peas which she had delivered each morning. She could be proud of how it looked. It was the luxury of a few hundred thousand rather than the millions she'd had to play with on Central Park West, but Diana thought she liked this apartment better. It was all her; each piece was there for beauty, not ostentation; it was feminine and graceful and simple. The way she had lived her life once Ernie had dumped her.

She stood back as he staggered through the door. There was an unmistakable reek of sour mash whiskey on his breath. Diana glanced down at her watch; it was ten to nine in the morning.

What a way for her fairy-tale wedding to end up, Diana thought. Cinderella's Prince Charming turns out to be a masochistic drunk, and the fairy carriage turns into a rent demand. And yet the irony was that her happiness had begun once Happily Ever After had fallen to pieces.

“H'llo, Di. You look gorgeous. Nice pantsuit. You smell good.” Ernie said. He looked at her rather pathetically with big puppy-dog eyes. “You always looked good though. Never better than now.”

Diana smoothed down her hair. She had no idea what to say. Once she had been desperate to make Ernie fall back in love with her, now she just wanted him to get out.

“Thank you.” She moved toward her white marble kitchen countertop, just to get farther away from him. “Let me get you some coffee.”

“Only if you're going to make it Irish,” Ernie said.

“At nine
A.M.
? Let me get you milk and sugar.” Diana settled into her single armchair so there was no danger he would park himself by her. “What's all this about, Ernie? I'm glad you have another job. But I have to be at work. I'm late already.”

“Right.” He slipped onto her couch, ignoring the coffee, and gazed across at her. His tone was heavy with sarcasm. “You're the big working woman now.”

“Yes, I am.” Diana held his gaze unflinchingly. “And I'm needed at my company.”

“S'not yours. S' Cicero's. Little fucking Yank bastard.”

“I would rather you didn't use language like that,” Diana said. “Look, Ernie—I need you to tell me what this is all about.”

To her horror he got up from the sofa, lurched toward her, and dropped clumsily to one knee, taking her hand in his.

“We made a lot of mistakes, OK, Di? I was—I cheated on you. But I always loved you.” Mawkish alcohol-fueled remorse was getting the better of him. His eyes were bloodshot and teary. “I broke up with Felicity. She was always trying to split us up—”

“You don't say,” Diana interjected coldly. She had to let him finish, but he repulsed her. Did he expect her to forget everything and take him back so he could cheat on her in England, too?

“She's gone. She was trashy, compared to you. You're a classy lady.” Ernie's breath reeked, and Diana tried not to flinch. “You need to give up work and come home with me. We can do better there. All your friends. Your clubs. All that.”

“Ernie,” Diana yanked her hand out of his, “why do all the men in my life seem to think I want to stop working? Maybe I like it. Maybe I'm good at it.”

“Come on, darlin'.” Ernie's eyes narrowed, meanly. “You got a job because you were my wife, all right?”

His words stung. Diana pushed herself to her feet. “It's time for you to leave. I'm happy in America and there's nothing between us anymore.”

“You don't mean that,” he whined. Then he looked at her face, and saw the expression on it; the hard set of her brows, the look of disdain set over her high cheekbones and full lips.

“I see how it is.” Ernie slouched toward the door. “You're fucking that guy. And now you're playing Businesswoman of the Year, like you played the good wife with me. Except now you picked some kid from the backwaters of the Bronx.”

“Get out, Ernie,” Diana pushed him from her, revolted, “before I call security. Michael managed to make it without stepping on people. Maybe that's something you despise. The funny thing is you're finished, and you don't even know it. And by the way—you're hardly from the right side of town yourself.”

“You think you won.” His bony finger jabbed at her. “You think Cicero can ride off into the sunset with my wife and my fucking life? You got another think coming, girl. I'm not through.”

“But you are, Ernie. That's exactly what you are,” Diana told him.

She shoved him into the hallway and locked the door behind him.

FORTY-THREE

Michael stepped out of the cab and paused for a second on the sidewalk. The commuters rushing past ignored him. Manhattan was always that way; nobody bothered to look around, nobody had the time. The steam that hissed up from the sidewalks, the clouds of cherry blossom clinging tenaciously to the trees despite the dust and fumes from the honking cabs and backed-up Lincoln town cars, everything got ignored in favor of getting where you were going. Yesterday.

It was early morning. Any second now, Diana would be here and he could get on with the business of making serious money.

Michael gazed up at the black monolith of the JanCorp tower. His office was up there. The phones and faxes would already be starting to buzz with the hymn of success he loved so much. Last week had been fun, sure: sticking it to Ernie, a day he had waited and planned for.

There was that Italian revenge thing. Michael wasn't the type to use a concrete overcoat or a baseball bat, but watching that bastard's career crumble, in his own building, in front of his own board … that had been satisfying.

CNN had announced Ernie's resignation on its business news. The shot of him, harassed, rushing out of the conference room in the middle of the meeting had been worth staying up late for. If he had been younger, Michael would have taped that to watch it over and over. But not now. He was more concerned with the future than the past.

He took a deep breath, sniffing in the scent of coffee and gas fumes and blossoms and doughnuts, everything that made New York what it was. Then he pushed open the door to the lobby.

“Good morning, Mr. Cicero.” Sally, the receptionist, greeted him deferentially as usual. She hastily shoved something she was reading out of sight. She blushed. “Your assistant, Mr. Piato—”

“Harry's in already. Good.”

“Yes sir, he's been in for an hour, supervising the PR response.”

Michael paused and looked down at her. Damn, he was handsome, Sally thought, that square jaw and broken nose, the muscles on him under the well-cut black suit that brought out his eyes. Every woman in the place was half in love with him. And who knew? Maybe after the scandal he'd be a free man again.

She reminded herself to stock up on lip gloss.

“PR response to what? Surely there's not that much more to be said on Blakely's. I thought the phones stopped ringing a day or so ago.”

“No-no,” Sally stammered. She wasn't sure what to say. “You mean you haven't seen it?”

“Seen what?” Michael demanded.

Furtively Sally kicked away the copy of
Big City
she had let tumble to the floor. Oh man. If he caught her with it … who was going to be the one to break it to him? Not her. They always shot the messenger.

“There's an article in a magazine I think Mr. Piato wants you to look at,” Sally whispered lamely. Cicero was fixing her with that intense, dark stare. “Please, sir—”

“Don't worry about it.” He smiled confidently, and she was able to stop a tremble before it started. “Whatever it is, I'm sure you had nothing to do with it.”

“Oh no.” The girl went scarlet and shook her head violently. “Nothing at all. Really. I never even knew her. Except when she came in in the mornings.”

Michael smiled reassuringly at her. What was the girl's name? Sally?

“I'll sort it out. You have a nice day, honey.”

He stepped into the elevator as Sally looked longingly after him. Most guys here were afraid to wish her good morning in case they got slapped with a sexual-harassment rap. But Michael always called her baby, or doll or honey. How she wished she was his honey.

“You too, sir,” she said wistfully as the chrome doors hissed shut.

The fact was, she suspected, he was about to have the worst day he'd had in a long time.

*   *   *

Michael stepped out on the ninth floor. He instantly noticed something was amiss. The normal early morning office chatter and buzz was muted and subdued. Nobody was even playing Quake on office time. The programmers weren't in yet, of course, but the marketing staff were, and they were nearly as bad; swearing, rock music, empty pizza boxes. This morning they were keeping their heads down. He greeted a couple of his lieutenants. They both just smiled briefly and scuttled away from him.

Michael's radar picked up. Danger, it bleeped at him. He strode to his office, noticing that Harry, the executive assistant who had replaced Tina, had gone inside. He glanced down at Harry's phones and saw all the lights blinking. At least six calls were on hold.

“Emma.” He turned around and gave a brisk order to his office manager. “Pick up all the calls that are holding, apologize and say we can't speak to them at this time. Take messages. Then divert all my calls to Harry's voicemail until further notice.”

“Yes sir,” Emma Harris said. She was a pretty, efficient young woman, usually very exuberant. Today, she was twisting her fingers. “Can I just say I'm very sorry? I don't believe it, anyway.”

What the fucking hell is going on? Michael thought. He pushed open the door and let himself into his office.

“Fill me in,” he snapped at Harry once the door was shut.

Harry winced and simply handed over a copy of
Big City.

The picture on the front was unmistakable; Diana, looking regal, as classy as she ever had, in a long dress of light mint-green silk, with Brad Bailey holding her arm, her hair swept up in a glossy French knot, diamonds dripping from her earlobes and draped over her throat. She screamed class and elegance. Michael had a momentary pang of jealousy; he hated to think Brad had once been her date. Or that any man would touch those curves other than himself.

But that was only for a nanosecond. The blaring headline at the bottom could not be ignored.

IS THIS THE BIGGEST GOLD-DIGGER IN NEW YORK
? it yelled. Underneath, in bold red letters, was written,
Home-wrecker … Hustler … Fortune-hunter … The thrilling accusations of the rival she replaced!