For All the Wrong Reasons (9 page)

Ernie looked over Diana's body: slender, but still curvy. He wasn't sure he quite liked the round, womanly fullness of her hips and breasts, and her thighs weren't pure muscle, like Mira's when she gripped the sides of his back with them as she rode him like a pony.

What a turn-on it was when Mira had sat next to him at dinner and ground her spiked heel into his foot. There was his young wife, such a good girl, in the flowing, dusty-pink chiffon gown, sweeping around her ankles, hair and make-up to a simple minimum, and then, when he looked around, there was petite, boyish, cruel, brazen Mira, in her outrageous little black number, no bra so her hard nipples peeked through the fabric. Mira had lowered her lashes and stared at him last night, all through dinner. It was hard when he was trying to play King of the Castle with all the movers and shakers, but those black little pools had been merciless. It was like she was daring him to look away from her. With Diana right there. And when he'd had to, her cruel smile seemed to promise the most delicious punishment.

They were going to meet up tonight, after work. Mira didn't allow disobedience, hell no. The things she did to him with that riding crop. But somehow she knew not to let her commands interfere with his work. She liked the little baubles and presents he gave her and she liked his status. So when she ordered him, sharply, to be nude and on his knees, blindfolded, in the club, she told him seven thirty
P.M.
—enough time to pleasure her, and still be back at the apartment in time for dinner.

His wife couldn't compete, now could she? Their sex was dutiful, never passionate. Diana endured him and he rarely made it with her, thinking about Mira when he did so to get him off.

But Ernie wasn't discontent. Nobody could match Diana as a housekeeper and hostess, when she wasn't shopping for England. Her latest party had been a wonderful success. He had a stack of gilt-edged envelopes on his mantelpiece so thick she was almost a social secretary. And other men looked at his wife with a kind of glitter in their eyes, which made him happy. Ernie loved having the toys that the other boys wanted. He “worked” later at the office, to give him time with Mira, and he came home to a lovely catered dinner, or a well-dressed Diana waiting patiently with their tickets to the Met in one gloved hand. His friends' wives were all over her, too. It meant she was a hit in New York. So he was, all in all, quite satisfied, he told himself, regarding her narrow waist and the firm curve of her behind without wanting her. Diana was expensive, but she was great PR. She reflected on him all the class he couldn't quite manage himself. Yes, all in all, she was a great investment.

The phone at his bedside purred softly. Diana's choice, so that it wouldn't wake them too harshly in an emergency.

He lifted the receiver. “It's five to six in the morning,” Ernie said, “so I hope you've got a good reason for calling this early.”

“I don't need a reason for anything I do.”

Oh man. It was Mira. Ernie sat up, his skinny body excited, the silk sheets pooling around his groin. “You can't call here. You might wake my wife.”

“I can do anything I want to, you little worm. And stop whispering.”

“I—I can't,” Ernie croaked, hoarsely. He glanced down at Diana, looking at her body, her even breathing.

“Never mind about that, you simpering Brit moron. Be at the corner of Sixth and Twelfth in thirty minutes. And expect to be punished like you deserve. You
do
deserve it, don't you?”

“Yes,” Ernie muttered, flushing. His dick was hard now.

“Louder.” Her sexy voice was a guttural hiss in his ear.

“Yes. Yes,” he breathed. “Look. I'll be there.”

“You better be.” Mira smashed the receiver down, and Ernie hung up, thrilled to his bones. What would she do to him today? He guessed there was only one way to find out. Gingerly, swinging his thin body away from Diana's curves, he put his bare feet on the hardwood floor, and padded across the polished mahogany to where his wife had laid out his work outfit over a chair.

It took Ernie five minutes to shower, five minutes to dress, and another thirty seconds to leave, closing the apartment door softly behind him.

Only then did Diana Foxton open her beautiful, shocked blue eyes.

*   *   *

How dare he? she asked herself.

It was the fiftieth time she had asked herself that question that morning, and it was only seven
A.M.
The maid was silently spooning fresh summer-fruit compote into Diana's crystal dish, and refilling her glass with pomegranate juice and champagne, so she smiled sweetly and pretended to be interested in Liz Smith's column in the paper as she played with the ivory spoon in her hazelnut vanilla coffee. It didn't do to show emotion in front of the help, but inside she was fuming. Diana's gaze flickered from the newsprint she wasn't reading to the springtime beauty of the park that she wasn't taking in.

It had to be that strumpet who had embarrassed her last night. Turning up in basic black was bad enough, but in a dress so tight and tarty it belonged on a high-school kid with a bad reputation? Diana had been so sweet to her, too, sitting her next to Ernie—humph—what a rich joke—and asking her questions about her boring work she seemed so obsessed with. Why, she'd even tried to give Mira some invaluable beauty advice, recommending Clarins, Aveda and Bobbi Brown, to steer her off those fire-engine reds and overly plucked brows. So flashy. So eighties. And it would seem her husband—her newlywed husband—the husband of Diana Foxton, the toast of Manhattan—
preferred
that two-buck tramp!

What a humiliation! Could there be anything worse than this? Diana wondered, absent-mindedly sipping the mimosa she'd felt she needed for strength this morning. Lying there, listening to him make a secret date with some slut?

Diana scrutinized her reflection in the glass top of her terrace breakfast table. It was puzzling. Was there anything wrong with the face that stared back at her, the smooth skin, the almond-shaped blue eyes, the pretty little nose … maybe the nose … maybe it could be a little more chiseled, a bit more modelly, but she'd always assumed men
liked
the slight imperfections in the face that made her, well, her. Were her eyebrows not arched properly, were her teeth not bleached as bright as they could be? She wouldn't second-guess her perfect sense of style, but what, for goodness' sake, could make Ernie prefer the tramp from last night to herself?

They'd been married for six blissful months now. Yes, Diana insisted to herself, they
had
been six blissful months. The wonderful parties, the celebratory dinners over Ernie's latest business triumphs, her
sensational
redecoration of the apartment, the terrace garden, really, everything. Except possibly the sex. Sex was a frightful bore, when it came right down to it, but Diana didn't let that faze her. Basically, she knew she was simply more worldly-wise than most of her fellow females, or maybe more honest.

Women hated sex.

They had hated it since time immemorial. The clever woman simply made allowances for the needs of men, let them do whatever they wanted, and tried not to protest too much. After all, who really enjoyed sex? Men. Men had orgasms at the drop of a hat. All a man needed to arouse him was friction.

Diana sipped her drink, watching the morning light play on the fluted stem of the glass, allowing the bubbles to fizzle against her tongue. They were using Cristal, which was the current in vogue choice of the Yank set, but which she thought was inferior, all things considered, to Dom Perignon or Taittinger.

Yes, it was a pity that women were built so differently. She had never met a woman who reached climax with her man in bed, although the magazines were full of articles about it, which were pie-in-the-sky lies as far as Diana was concerned. What women did in bed was sigh, cry, and lie, and watch the minutes—or seconds, in Ernie's case—go by. Sex, after all, was what men liked, and it was a price a girl knew she had to pay.

Diana detested sex. It was like a bad boyfriend—all promises and then all letdowns. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, you would get a bit excited, get that nervous, squirmy, edgy feeling in your belly, get slightly damp in that secret place between the legs. And then you went to bed with him, and you wound up frustrated and angry, lying there trying to get his big heap of a sweating, smelly body off your body and your aching nipples.

It had been that way with Jack, the naval second lieutenant who had been her first boyfriend. At least Ernie didn't frustrate her, because he never even aroused her in the first place.

The best part of married sex, Diana thought viciously, was when Ernie rolled over and went to sleep. Of course, it only lasted a few seconds. Then he started snoring.

But could Ernie get better from somebody else? He was nothing himself in the sexual stakes. Huffing and puffing and grunting and making death's-head rictus faces. Maybe the other girl was a better faker than she was. Frankly, Diana found it just silly to lie there moaning like Meg Ryan in
When Harry Met Sally.
If she started all that, she'd just burst into giggles, which would make Ernie's unimpressive penis do a nice impression of a soft, floppy worm.

Diana tried to imagine Ernie with another woman. Was she jealous? Not exactly, she decided. She was angry though, very, very angry. She had never complained about his aggravating sexual antics. She had been an ideal hostess. And this, this was how he repaid her—his new bride!

“Consuela,” she said.

“Yes, Senora Foxton.”

“Could you bring me my cellular phone and my diary?”

“Right away, Senora Foxton,” her maid said, hurrying off.

Diana clenched her fist and angrily dive-bombed her spoon into her compote in childish resentment. Ernie might think he could get away with treating her like a silly little fool, but he was sorely mistaken. She had friends here, too. And she was going to hold a council of war. No way was she losing her man to some two-bit little American whore.

*   *   *

“Darling, it's
so good
to see you.”

Natasha Zuckerman kissed the air on both sides of Diana's cheeks. “Not a moment too soon, either. Felicity and Jodie were wondering what happened.”

“Gridlock,” Diana murmured, “so sorry to have kept you.”

She had summoned the three ladies best suited to give her advice, Diana congratulated herself. Natasha and Jodie were happily married to big businessmen, and Felicity was divorced—something she could help Diana prevent. She'd thought about asking Claire Bryant, too, but had decided against it. Claire had a bit of a feminist streak, the side of her that made Diana uncomfortable. She tossed her head arrogantly. Claire Bryant would just tell her to confront him, get a divorce. Diana didn't want to hear that.

These girls would tell her what she did want to hear.

“Not at all,” Natasha purred. “It's murder trying to get down to the Village at lunchtimes. But my spirits are restored because you chose Mono.”

“The food's terrific and it's all herbs, hardly any fat.”

Privately Diana thought her friend could use a little meat on her skinny hips, but she didn't want to belabor the point. It was much easier to get the girls out at the last minute if you could find somewhere that had decent low-fat cooking, even though as they only ever had salads and breadsticks it really didn't matter where she chose.

“Wonderful to see you all.” Kisses were exchanged, and Diana saw everybody was sipping Perrier water. To hell with it, she thought, ordering up a nice glass of Chardonnay big enough to bathe in.

“Sweetie.” Jodie looked very concerned. “All the urgency, and the last minute—what on earth has happened?”

“Something awful.” The wine came, and Diana took a big gulp. “I need your advice.”

“Your personal organizer crashed.”

“Your maid has been taping your cellular calls.”

“The IRS wants to investigate Ernie,” Jodie suggested excitedly.

“No. It's much worse than that.”

“What could be worse than the IRS?” Felicity said, horrified.

“I think Ernie's having an affair,” Diana muttered.

There was a shocked silence. And then, to her amazement, all three of her girlfriends started to laugh.

“What's so funny? I don't get it,” Diana said, rather offended.

“Oh, don't look like that, darling,” Jodie said, patting her hand reassuringly. “It's nothing, really, except we assumed you knew. Of course Ernie's having an affair. Everybody knows that.”

“Well, I'm shocked. I think it's just awful of Ernie to be sneaking around behind your back,” Jodie sniffed. “I rather assumed you knew as well. People thought the two of you had an open marriage.”

“An open marriage!” Diana said, flushing bright pink with shame. “Of
course
not!”

“Well.” Felicity put her water glass down with a determined thud. “Seeing as you don't know, Di, somebody's got to tell you. It's not just an affair. It's affairs. Ernie's a womanizer. Everybody knew about it.”

“Everybody except me,” Diana said.

NINE

Diana smiled, chewed her food precisely, and pushed her salad around her plate, and tried hard not to display too much emotion in front of her friends.

“But, angel, it's Mira Chen at his office. They are always working late. My maid's husband knows one of the cleaners over at Blakely's,” Natasha told her.

Felicity made an angry stabbing motion in the air with her fork. “And before Mira wasn't it Henrietta Johnson?”

“Maurice Johnson's wife?” Diana asked, amazed. The Johnsons were bankers and had moved to Miami last month. Luckily for them, she thought. To think she'd played tennis with Henrietta in that tournament on Long Island. And all the time she really wanted a set of mixed doubles with Ernie!