The Other Woman (3 page)

How can they not compare a fresh, juicy gold-digger to the dried-up prune with lashings of Estee Lauder Advanced Night Repair and Dr. Lewinn's Collagen-Enriched Mask next to them?)

As I surreptitiously observed my target and his wife, I realized there may be a need for me to change my plans and outlook slightly. Bradley seemed to like the idea of a frumpy wife, one who was comfortable and content with her role solely as nurturer.

I wanted to please him, so unfortunately, I would have to compromise and adopt some of her ways. Or
appear
to adopt. Like aprons – I planned to use one when I entertained. Rival wasn’t wearing one. It would have been most fitting if she did. Very Stepford Wives.

She wore a velour burgundy track suit that made her look like she had slipped two, lumpy bean bags in where her arse once was.

My aprons would be designer, stylish, and classy. Small, frilly and sexy. If aprons did sexy, that is. If they didn’t, I’d fix that and have them especially made for me.

I smiled to myself as I mentally sketched a few that wouldn’t upstage my carefully chosen attire for the occasion.

By the end of the evening, I had to admit to a few truths – as if she knew I was coming along one day to take over the reins, Rival had paved the way for me. Her home was perfect, her husband was perfect and broken-in, her kids were seen and not heard, and…they listened when their parents spoke. Unusual. In short, her Disney family was perfect.

All that she created would fall neatly into my lap. It was time for her to abdicate. Would she go easy? I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t tell, as she wasn’t a big talker.

But I couldn’t worry about that; I had other more pressing issues to worry about, like stage three of my seduction plan – seducing Bradley Murdoch.

I was embarking on the most exciting stage of my seduction plan – going head to head with Bradley Murdoch. I shivered with anticipation at the thought of making
direct
contact with my future husband.

Attorney Bradley Murdoch was on Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn, Google...everywhere. But his social media friends and followers weren’t as large as they should have been. I made a mental note to work on that once we were a couple.

The first thing I did was friend Bradley on Facebook. No problem with that – he accepted my friend request right away.

Bradley Murdoch:
Hey, Scarlett!

Scarlett Smyth:
Hey Brad! How u going, mate?

Bradley:
Good. Working hard. And u?

Scarlett Smyth:
Ditto
.

I wanted Bradley so much, it was a struggle not to hit him up with something funny, elicit a laugh, and keep the conversation flowing. But if I didn’t want to blow things, I had to leave it there and be content with his sporadic postings.

Bradley Murdoch:
Man arrested after road trip on lawnmower. Can you believe this?

Scarlett Smyth
likes this!

Bradley Murdoch:
Helped my daughter with her school space project. We got an A!

Scarlett Smyth commented on your post
: Lol! Good going there Brad.

Bradley Murdoch
likes this!

Bradley Murdoch:
Traffic is driving me nuts.

Scarlett Smyth
likes this!

Scarlett Smyth
commented on your post:
Breathe Brad.
(Smiley face.)

Bradley Murdoch
likes this!

I was careful with my comments, treaded cautiously, as I was aware that Rival was friends with Bradley on Facebook and privy to all his Facebook activities. Then, I took to Twitter with Bradley.

@BradleyMurdoch:
Should the blind b allowed to carry guns in public?

I retweeted some of his tweets.

I could be a little bolder with Twitter, as Rival was not following him or me on Twitter, which meant she couldn’t see me interacting with her husband.

After a week of internet stalking, it was time to see him in the flesh, hear his voice, look into his eyes. Even touch him.

****

My stalking of future Prime Minister Bradley Murdoch revealed that he skipped breakfast most days and usually lunched at
Bogi’s
Bistro,
where he enjoyed a steak roll, medium rare, with a Greek salad and a coke.

On Fridays, he’d have a Corona (no lemon) with his steak.

As he ate, he usually read the paper or watched whatever was on the large-screen TV. Unlike most people, he didn’t touch his phone while he ate his lunch.

If you asked me what I wore in this important stage of seduction, I’d summarize it with a pair of jeans, a top, and a cropped jacket. Nothing too out there, as I didn’t want to frighten off Bradley. But wait; we’re talking about
me
here! Scarlett Smyth (with a Y), remember? I didn’t do ordinary, I didn’t do
everyday
, and as for casual…nope, didn’t do that either!

A great deal of thought went into my outfit for my first solo meeting with my mark.

My low-slung, indigo Diesel jeans had small but strategic slits on the thighs. My Lyrca-and-cotton t-shirt in eggshell molded and strained deliciously across my breasts. My cropped navy collarless jacket accentuated my small waist and did not in any way overshadow my breasts. My tan and copper stilettos and matching Prada purse complimented and blended into my outfit rather than vie for attention.

My only jewelry was a pair of bronzed hooped earrings.

For my up close and personal meeting with Bradley, I had my hair streaked with bluish highlights, making it two shades lighter than what it was.

As I sauntered toward
Bogi’s Bistro
, I surreptitiously took note of the looks I got from males and females. My sexy but subtle ensemble had not let me down. Heads turned, traffic slowed to allow for a better look, women pressed their lips together in sheer envy, and my smugness was hard to contain.

Bradley was reading from his phone and stumbling toward the bistro when I stepped into his path.

My bump into him was harder than necessary, but for impact’s sake, it needed to be that way.

“Awww!” I cried, dropping a file I was carrying and clutching my shoulder.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, so sorry!” Bradley cried. “So sorr…” He stopped apologizing and squinted at me. “Scarlett?” His blue eyes filled with surprise.

“Bradley?” My blue eyes mirrored his. “Damn! Now I can’t sue you for the assault,” I grouched, rubbing my shoulder.

He chuckled and continued apologizing as he bent to pick up my file.

“You eating here?” I asked, pointing at
Borgi’s
.

He nodded.

“Good, then you can avoid a lawsuit by springing for lunch, because I’m starving.”

“Sure,” he said and gestured for me to enter the bistro. “After you.”

Easy peasy.

I stepped into the restaurant, and immediately a chubby waitress with a forgettable face in a dress so tight you’d think she had been melted and poured into it appeared in front of us.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Murdoch!” she sang, thrusting out her measly B-cups at him. She did not greet, look, or smile at me.

“Oh, hey, Liz! How you doing?”

“Good, good!” the leftover-loving waitress said, her eyes shifting briefly to me, then back at Bradley. “Need a table, Brad?”

Brad
?
First name basis. How…nice.

“I sure do, Liz!” Bradley said, and held up two fingers.

She tilted her head and smiled at him from under her sparse lashes, revealing a third chin, and a desire to be punched in the fucking face! “Follow me, then.”

As we trailed the well-rounded slut, I looked at Bradley and said, “In spite of the assault, I’m glad you’re here. I hate eating alone. Absolutely despise it.”

“Why?” he asked, his brows knitting.

“Can’t handle everyone looking at me.” I dropped my voice, leaned in and whispered, “I feel so shy that sometimes I leave without finishing my food.”

To my delight, even though I had predicted this, his demeanor immediately turned protective. “Ah, don’t you worry ’bout that,” he said, and taking my elbow, steered me firmly to our table. “Today,
I’m
with you, and you
will
finish your food.”

In a matter of minutes, I had gotten him to touch me. How’s that? Am I smart or what?

With an inward smile, I allowed Bradley Murdoch, whose hand was deliciously strong and warm on my elbow, to take charge. Or let him
think
he did.

Then came the enjoyable part. Showing him how much we had in common.

First, food choices.

“Mm…I’ll have…a…hmm…” I wriggled my Givenchy Coppery Orange lips and said, “I’ll have the steak roll…medium rare…with a Greek salad.” I looked at him and shrugged. “My standard order.”

That wasn’t true. I ate red meat, sure, but only at Christmas. Other than that, it was lean chicken, grilled, with no butter, and a green veg. Just one. I had to if I didn’t want to look like Rival or our chunky waitress.

He jerked back in surprise. “That’s
exactly
my order!”

My turn to look surprised. Or feign it. “Really?” My eyes dropped half-mast, and in a voice smooth as velvet I said, “Okay, I get it; you’re trying to make me feel comfortable. Thank—”

“No, no, no, no! I swear I’m not.” He slapped the table with his palm. “That really is my order. Me too – pretty boring when it comes to food.”

I stared at him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

I nodded slowly, rested my chin on my palm, and in a breathy voice said, “We have a lot in common, then, Bradley Murdoch.”

He threw his palms upwards, a huge grin on his handsome face. “We sure do. What are you drinking?”

“Corona. No lemon, please.” My answer was immediate.

He jerked back and wagged his index finger at me. “You for real? That’s
my
choice of drink too. No lemon.”

I flashed the fool a smile I reserved for first dates, put out my hand, and in my sexiest voice said, “Feel me.”

His eyebrows jerked up and his eyes darted around. “Wha—”

“I’m real. You asked if I was real. Feel me. Pinch me, Mr. Murdoch.”

His eyes dropped to my outstretched hand, then lifted to my eyes. Gingerly, he reached out and pinched my arm.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry,” he said with a nervous chuckle. “You’re real a’right!”

The ice between us was broken, and before our food arrived, we were locked in a running fire of raillery. He was witty, gave as good as he took, and there was never a moment’s pause in our conversation. As our lunch progressed, I had to admit, I was having a great time. I didn’t have to
pretend
to be having a good time; I really was having fun. Bradley was one of the most interesting men I had ever met.

Unfortunately (and fortunately) he was popular. People stopped at our table to say hello to him.

At times he shook hands with them and said, “Good to see you! We must do lunch sometime.”

Other times, he fist-bumped them and said, “Mate, where the fuck you’ve been? Been wanting to whip your arse on the squash courts for a while now.”

Even though he wore a suit, he cursed, was slightly thuggish, and didn’t seem to care that I was around to hear it. Some women might find that offensive. Not me. The fact that he was versatile in any social situation and was comfortable in his own skin turned me on.

And he was nice, too. Not once did he get mad about them interrupting his meal. I got annoyed, irritated in fact, but he was really gracious at the intrusions.

I needed to bring him back to me, so I started a little footsy under the table. Snuck it in.

“Sorry I keep kicking you,” I said.

“Kick away!” he said with a mouthful of steak. (Again, that
rawness
that I liked.)

“Well, considering you assaulted me earlier on, and pinched me without provocation, I’d say I’m entitled to a few good kicks.”

He laughed and looked at my shoes. “With those heels? Bet you have to have a permit to wear heels that high, huh?”

Alas, time flew all too quickly to my disappointment, and another challenge posed. How would I get to enjoy a lunch like this with him again?

****

As we ate, Bradley’s phone rang several times. Each time he looked at his phone, then let it go to voicemail. But when Rival’s number appeared on the screen, he said, “Mind if I take this call? It’s Rival.”

“Of course not!” I answered.
Shit
!

“Hey, babe,” he said. “Guess who I’m having lunch with?”

Babe
…

“Scarlett. Yeah.
Bogie’s
.” I heard him explain how we crashed into each other.

“Hi, Rival!” I shouted, hoping she wouldn’t get mad about me having lunch with her husband.

Evidently she didn’t. She returned the greeting.

“Okay, bread, milk, and chocolate. Got it!” he said, and hung up.

As we continued our lunch, I thought, silly, complacent Rival, if only she knew what was in store for her.

There was no real seduction in that first meeting, save for the pinching bit, but that was okay. Taking it slow is
always
a good thing, trust me.

But I would need to move things along a little. Without appearing like I have an agenda, of course.

When Nickleback played in the background. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and said, “I love this group.” Then I opened my eyes, leaned in enough for him to catch a glimpse of my boobs, which had been artfully brushed with long-lasting bronzing body shimmer to accentuate my cleavage, and said, “Bet you don’t know who sings this song?”

His eyes dropped for a nanosecond to my thrusting breasts, then returned to my face, his drink suspended in mid-air.

“Get this right and I’ll spring for your next steak roll. And a Corona. Hell, I’ll even throw in a coke, and I’ll return the grievous body assault if you ask nicely.”

His eyebrows lifted before tiny laugh lines fanned his peepers.

“Get it wrong and the next lunch is on you. And be warned, I’ll be in the mood for lobster.”

He grinned, and with his eyes fixed to my face, took a large sip of his Corona.

“The clock starts…” I reached out, took his left hand, peered at the silver and leather Longines (I’d have to change that to a Rolex soon) on his wrist and said, “now!”

I held onto his hand for a few moments as I looked into his eyes, which were shiny with a mixture of amusement and excitement.