Magdalene (24 page)

“He’s perfectly representative of the lot.”
Not that I knew that, but it didn’t keep me from saying so.

“I’d fuck him.”

“So would I, if he’d let me.”

Nigel smirked at my dejected tone. “You’re
not trying hard enough.”

No. I wasn’t. I’d stopped trying because I
liked this slow seduction, liked the erotics of abstinence, the
game.

For now.

“Does he know?”

“Yes. I told him right up front. He demanded
test results.”

“Whoa. Really not a nutjob, then.”

“Exactly.”

“So where does he take you?”

“Dancing. That’s where we go most Friday
nights.”

“Where?”

“Cubax.”

“That’s where the serious dancers go. He
must be good.”

“Better than that. He can clear the floor by
himself.”

“Oooh, I think the great and magnificent
Cassie St. James is in
luv
.”

“Fuck you. I’m just more patient than he
is.”

“
Nobody
is more patient than
Hollander. So...where’s it headed if it’s not headed to bed?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to ambush him at
his church Sunday. You know he’s a bishop?”

Nigel burst out laughing. “Don’t tell me
you’d marry him to fuck him.”
Oh. Hmmm.
“Uh huh.”

I said nothing as we busied ourselves
cleaning up the litter of our lunch. I wanted to ignore his
smugness, but I had to answer it somehow. “I’m not in love with
him,” I said calmly and stood to head back to work. “But he wants
to play this ridiculous game and I’ll go along for the ride because
I want to ride
that
particular ride. He simply doesn’t
comprehend who he’s dealing with.”

“He must be a good kisser then.”

I huffed. “Well, for your information, he
hasn’t kissed me, either.”

A moment of stunned silence. “Oh, Cassie,”
murmured my husband-in-law with mock sadness. “I think maybe
you
don’t comprehend who
you’re
dealing with.”

* * * * *

That’s the
Way Love Goes

February 11, 2011

My assistant hung over my shoulder to read
the card that had come in today’s Friday flowers. I held it close
to my chest and looked at her, half annoyed, half amused. “How many
firms are paying you to find out who these are from?”

She flushed. “Six.”

“How big is the betting pool?”

“I don’t know,” she whined. “Nigel’s
managing it. I only know the six.” I smirked. “Which totally isn’t
fair because he knows who it is and he’s taking fifty percent off
the top.”

“Oh, it’s fair. It just makes everyone else
stupid for betting on his terms. So who’m I in bed with?”

She rattled off the names of half a dozen
financial movers and shakers around the world, three actors, a
celebrity chef, two bestselling novelists (both female), a Saudi
prince, and...Sebastian Taight.

“Sebastian’s coming in first so far,” she
told me. “I mean, look at those paintings. Man like that couldn’t
be faithful. Not to mention the fact that you’re his heir.” I began
to laugh as a feeling of contentment stole over me. That the
entirety of Wall Street was betting on the identity of my lover
meant either that no one had any better entertainment or they were
genuinely puzzled.

“Is there a side bet?”

She rolled her eyes. “If you’re hooking
again or not. That’s running about even.”

“I haven’t seen or heard of anyone staking
out my house. Must be no one’s willing to mess with Sheldon and his
crew over a bet.”

“That’s for sure. Besides, Nigel made it
clear he’ll know if somebody has inside information.”

I couldn’t help my grin.

Not a hint of a whiff of Mitch Hollander,
one ordinary man amongst that stable of studs and suddenly I
realized that his ability to fly under the radar like he did—both
financially and sexually—was a good chunk of the reason he had been
so successful.

Brilliantly sneaky.

Indeed.

It’d taken the financial world three years
to realize that Jep Industries had not actually died an ignominious
death due to Senator Roger Oth’s incompetence, and that between the
OKH Enterprises heir’s devious mind, King Midas’s strong-arm
tactics and capital, and Mitch Hollander’s behind-the-scenes
talent, it still lived and breathed, better than ever, employing
more people than it ever had, and keeping dozens of businesses
alive along with it. If anyone had figured that out before, during,
or fairly soon after Mitch’s takeover of that company, he would
have had to work three times harder to keep it afloat.

I looked down at the card I hadn’t had a
chance to read.

Saturday 10 a.m.
Get plenty of sleep and dress warm.

I blinked. That was different. Mitch had
said nothing this morning about not going dancing tonight and
suddenly, I simply didn’t know what I would do with myself.

Chick flicks and Chunky Monkey and Clarissa?
Really
? When I
had
a man?

I hadn’t realized how much I looked forward
to going dancing every Friday night, no matter what else we did
Saturday.

Lost.

Angry, bereft.

I had a man?

Dancing on Friday nights at Cubax was the
only chance Mitch gave me to get close enough to declare war on his
libido. I needed that time, that atmosphere, that sexual intensity
to seduce him.

“Cassie!” squeaked Clarissa that evening as
I came in the front door to find her and some guy half naked on the
sofa. I couldn’t tell if they were just getting started or just
finishing, but it didn’t matter. “Shit,” she hissed as she sprang
to her feet, looking not in the least bit abashed.

“I’m too young for grandchildren and I’m not
paying to treat any sexually transmitted diseases,” I sniped as I
dumped my briefcase on the kitchen counter. “And if I find any cum
stains on my very expensive couch, I’m billing you for the
cleaning.”

“I thought you were going out.”

“Can’t I have a moment to myself in my own
house? You have a room. Go fuck in it.”

“God, Cassie, could you be
more
disgusting?”

Why do you put up with that?

“Clarissa,” I said, hoping she’d take the
warning in my voice. “Get him out of here. I don’t care if you take
him upstairs or leave, but I want
my
space to
my
self
for a while.”

She opened her mouth to fling something else
at me, but I pointed at her.

“You say one more disrespectful thing to me
and you can go find somewhere else to sleep tonight. And tomorrow.
And every night after that. No more, Clarissa. I’m tired of
it.”

“Shit, I hope you get laid soon,” she
sneered.

I looked at her, this young woman I didn’t
know, and anger flooded me, hot and thick. The young woman who
spoke to me this way was my
child
. I had gone to war with
some of the fattest cats in the country and won, but my
children
treated me like dust on the soles of their
feet.

Why had I allowed this?

How?

“Out. You have an hour. After that, I’ll
call the cops and have you taken in for trespassing.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “I’ll go live with
Daddy and Nigel.”

“Good. Why didn’t you do that four years
ago?”

She flounced off and up the stairs, leaving
the boy, whose name I didn’t know, standing half naked by the
couch, flushed from his toes to his—

“Button your fly, kid,” I said as I
pointedly inspected him. “I’ve seen better.”

He flushed even redder and turned to do as I
said.

“Don’t mind her,” Clarissa snarled, having
stopped short and jumped the four steps down to the floor, then
shot across the room to help him into his clothes. “She’s just an
old whore who thinks dating an asshat Mormon bishop’ll give her her
virginity back.”

Everything stopped and I could hear the
roaring of blood in my ears. I had never struck my children. Not
once.

It had never occurred to me to do so.

Until now.

I stood frozen, unable to do anything—much
less slap her—until she left, boyfriend in tow, and slammed the
front door behind her. I fell back against the refrigerator and
slid to the floor, drawing my knees up to my chest. I would not
cry, would
not
—

I sat there on the kitchen floor for a long
time, in a complete daze, before I noticed the dust bunnies in the
corners, hidden by the toe kicks. So I arose and began to run water
to do my housekeeper’s job—without bothering to change out of my
tailored suit—then the doorbell rang. I threw the rag down in the
sink with a pissed-off sigh and stomped down the hall to fling the
door open.

My heart thundered.

“Cassandra.”

I could say nothing, because
he
was
here, when I had least expected him, wearing that sly smile and the
way he was dressed—

“Shall we dance?”

•

At three a.m., Mitch and I were the only
ones left at Cubax.

The lights had come up and the staff was
putting the chairs on the tables, sweeping, cleaning the bar. The
band was putting its equipment away, yet there we were, alone in
the middle of the dance floor—

—slow dancing to music only he and I could
hear, my sweat-soaked back to his sweat-soaked chest, his arms
wrapped around me. His mouth just touched my ear.

Just before I closed my eyes and let my head
rest on Mitch’s shoulder, I saw the bartender signal someone. Not
long after, Janet Jackson’s voice began to stream from the speakers
and perfectly matched the rhythm in which we danced.

Neither of us had spoken more than perhaps
twenty words each since I’d opened the door and he’d asked me to
dance. He’d known something was wrong and opened his mouth to ask,
but I’d shaken my head, unable to give it voice. He simply took out
a handkerchief and dabbed at my cheeks as if I had been crying.

Once the song ended, the front door was
flung open, letting in a blast of cool early-morning February
air.

“That’s our cue,” Mitch whispered in my ear
with a soft kiss.

At that moment, it didn’t matter. None of it
did. My kid’s disrespect. My ex-husband’s lack of financial
discipline. My best friend’s disapproval of the way I handled my
family. My boss’s irritation. My colleagues’ wagers.

“I heard about that,” Mitch murmured as we
walked out into the frigid darkness and I told him about the
financial district’s Friday flowers betting pool. “Tracey wouldn’t
let me place a bet, or I would’ve thrown a couple bucks in the
‘Sebastian Taight’ pot.”

I stopped short and stared at him, saw that
wicked grin that matched the mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “I’m
not allowed in the pool, either. Imagine that.”

Mitch threw back his head and laughed,
hugging me close. “So...what happened earlier?”

I shrugged. “A little tiff with
Clarissa.”

“Ah.”

Not so little, considering the subtext of
what she’d said, but I had done nothing to curb that tongue when I
could’ve, so I supposed I could be gracious about reaping what I’d
sown. Nigel would say I deserved it, and I’d have to concede.

“I thought I’d be spending Friday night in a
bathrobe watching
Bridget Jones’s Diary
with a quart of
Cherry Garcia for company.”

“Oh?” he said blithely as we strolled along,
vaguely heading toward my townhouse. “Did I impose?”

I chuckled. “I could’ve asked you to join
me. Olivia and her boyfriend could’ve been our chaperones.”

“Ah...Bridget Jones...no, thanks. Geneviève
made me sit through that. I wanted to poke out my eyeballs and
eardrums.”

“Don’t tell me. You like movies where they
blow lots of stuff up.”

“I’m pretty adolescent about my movie
tastes, yes. Tell you what. I’ll watch
Bridget Jones’s Diary
if you’ll watch
Fight Club
.” That made me chuckle, but we
said nothing for a block as we walked, my arm hooked in his and our
bodies pressed against each other. I was hyperaware of every rub of
his body against mine; this was as close as we ever got to kissing,
making love, and it occurred to me that eight weeks of foreplay
might be worth it when—if—I actually got him in bed.

“I wasn’t planning on going dancing last
night,” he finally admitted, low and without a trace of humor. He
sighed and wiped his left hand down his face. I noticed his bare
ring finger immediately. “I wanted to take you somewhere today and
needed some sleep, but I— I couldn’t stay away. I couldn’t wait
that long to see you.”

I thought I’d never breathe again.

“But...I have to be there when I told them I
would and I really need the sleep.”

“Um, that’s fine,” I said, distracted,
unsettled. “Where are we going?”

He flashed me that mischievous smile once
again as he hailed a cab. “Ice skating.”

“With...?”

“You’ll see.”

* * * * *

Satine

February 12, 2011

He showed up on my doorstep in worn, faded
jeans, hiking boots, and a fisherman sweater, all under a sheepskin
coat. God, that man was
hot
, no matter what he wore, and I
made sure he knew my opinion. He inspected my similarly clad body
with an indecipherable expression, that poker face his only defense
against me.

“Like what you see, Bishop?”

“Always.”

“Come inside and I’ll show you how much
better it looks undecorated.”

He grinned and refused to budge one inch
inside, as usual. “Did you get enough sleep?” he asked me once I’d
locked the front door behind me and we trotted down the front
steps.

“More than I’d have gotten if you had come
to bed with me,” I grumbled. “Don’t expect my gratitude.”

He laced his fingers through mine, wound his
arm around my waist and pulled me to him as if to rumba right there
on the sidewalk. I wrapped my free hand around his neck and pressed
my nose into the corner of his jaw simply to smell him and I felt
his breath hitch when I touched my tongue to his skin.