I’d given him permission with passivity. Maybe if I’d had more gumption, it wouldn’t have gotten to this.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
When had I become the queen of what-ifs?
Greg arrived home around seven bearing take-out from Molly McGuires—my favorite and an obvious ruse to placate the “little woman” when I was upset. I stared in stony silence while he chattered on about his plans for increasing “our” net worth, for expanding his law firm, and for us, all in that order.
“So what do you think, hon?” Greg finally wound down from his soliloquy.
Arms crossed, I unglued my tongue from the pocket of my cheek. “I want my money.”
“And you can have it.” He blinked at me, all doe-eyed innocence. “In five years or so when we sell the shares. If I sell now, you’ll lose everything, and you don’t want that, do you? Now stop worrying, you know I’m right.”
We continued through that circular loop, going nowhere, just like we always did.
Much later, I stood, alone in my massive, state-of-the-art designer kitchen. We owned the big house on the double treed lot, complete with the requisite swimming pool and gazebo. All the trappings of success, and each a golden handcuff supposed to make me ecstatic about this upper-middle-class suburban life of mine. It worked for all the others in the Lawyers’ Wives’ Club. So why not me?
Because pools and houses don’t love you back. Because I’m bored out of my mind, and I want to feel something. Anything.
I needed to feel wanted and cared for—was that too much to ask? Sadly, life had taught me it was the stuff of fairy tales.
I waited, motionless, staring out the kitchen window at nothing. I’d made a bet with myself. If Greg sat down and talked with me, really heard what I was saying, I’d give him another chance.
Why the hell would you do that? What are you, an idiot? My mother’s favorite refrain rang through her mind. You should know better by now. Get your head out of the clouds.
Maybe she was right. I wasn’t a kid anymore.
Twenty years of marriage, the kid off to university, a lovely home, a recognized author, and a very successful lawyer for a husband. Yet only one thought consumed me—I’d rather be alone.
It wasn’t always like this. I met Greg Dick when I worked as a legal secretary in his firm, long before the Pillsbury dough boy became his role model. He’d been so handsome, tall, slim, tanned, and finely toned, his dark hair emphasizing the twinkle in his brilliant black eyes. What started with a coffee in the lunchroom soon became late nights in his office when he couldn’t keep his hands off me. He wasn’t exactly what you’d call the most creative lover, but his desire for me was real, and it was enough to feel wanted.
Who said, “The only constant in life is change”?
I finished rinsing the dishes and stared at my reflection in the window. I fervently prayed for one sign Greg could change. Maybe he’d taken me seriously. Maybe he’d finally realized we were in trouble. I actually might be out of my mind wishing for this. Not one thing in me wanted to stay with this man. But, I had to say I’d given it my best try.
Just this once let him be unpredictable. Please don’t say the words.
The same words I heard at the same time, every night when he was in the mood or thought he needed to take the little woman in hand. Just come and talk to me. I turned from the window and glanced at the clock, wishing the time would pass with silence. Just this once.
Then I heard it. Bloody hell.
“The news is over in ten minutes. It was one of those difficult days, and you haven’t made it any easier. Head up to bed. You can help me relax so I can get some sleep.”
Pathetic! I could only assume that was his attempt at foreplay. Usually, I would make some excuse. Lord knew I had an arsenal of them. I’d have to suffer through his patronizing attitude, not to mention his childlike disappointment. His “poor me” mask would cover his face as he mumbled, “It’s not like I ask that much from you, is it?”
When I’d given in, I had to face the smug grin on his face while he stood at the side of the bed, his erection proudly proclaiming his manhood.
“Spread those legs,” he’d say. “Let’s not keep the big guy waiting.”
Lucky me. More foreplay. I’m sure Greg thought the “big guy” was his gift to me, but he always forgot to tie a ribbon around it. Then we’d have two to three minutes of grunting resolve before he lay snoring while I’d watch the reflection from vehicles passing on the street.
You’re so right, Judy—where is Logan with a backbone? Why didn’t I take him on about his chippies? The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. I refused for one more second to be one of those poor women who turned a blind eye to the antics of their philandering husbands just to maintain social status.
I gazed into the darkness letting the background sound of the news announcer fade to oblivion. Each thought raced to a new level of despair that quickly turned to anger. Once again, Greg was the source. But if I was honest, I was most angry with myself.
Judy’s voice sang through my head: Do something about it. This time I would, but what?
I snatched the keys to my Infiniti Q70 off the counter and headed out the door.
Chapter 2
Daniel
“You keep telling yourself that, Danny boy. Maybe it will help you sleep at night,” she’d said.
As a lawyer, you quickly learn not to get emotionally involved. Your role is to ensure all legal requirements are clearly understood and never make it personal. At least that’s what you tell yourself. In truth, you are seldom impartial, but you hide behind an objective persona. You tell yourself it’s in the client’s best interest. After all, you’re a lawyer, not a counseling service. Then someone like Logan turns your safe little world upside down.
Those incredible sapphire eyes, shimmering with tears, stabbed into me one last time. Something about the way she played with that lock of hair reminded me of a lost kitten desperate for affection. Something about the look in those bottomless eyes, like she’d found the key to the secrets of my soul, pulled at something deep within my core. Something that stirred my usually obedient and quiescent cock. Something that made me wish—for just a heartbeat—she was mine. It wasn’t purely sexual, although I couldn't deny the attraction.
Whoa. Get a grip, buddy. Not only was Logan off limits; she was hardly the type to embrace my lifestyle. Hell, I wasn’t sure I accepted my lifestyle, but I could no more rid myself of it than any other essential part of my being.
Besides, she was one of the country club set I couldn’t abide. There was something different, something special about her. As always when I saw her, I was left with the feeling that she deserved someone better than my asshole of a partner, Greg Dick. Hands off! I did not need one more thing to complicate my already fucked-up life.
Okay, to call it fucked up might be a little extreme, but I certainly was at a crossroad. I was a grown man just finding out I was wrong about who I was. Here was a letter announcing I was adopted, and the lineage I cherished was now in question. I mean, really? I’d lived my thirty-five years believing I was from a long line of English aristocracy only to find I’d been living a lie.
If that wasn’t bad enough, the firm’s accountant had approached me with concerns about diverting large sums of cash to offshore accounts. Top that off with a very lucrative job offer from one of the largest Wall Street investment firms when I’m questioning whether I should even be in this business. I had indeed run head first into one of life’s little crossroads. I worked very hard to think of this as an opportunity for change, but I couldn’t help wondering if I’d be substituting one uninspired position for another. So what the hell do you want, Daniel? Maybe if I kept asking myself, I would find the answer. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.
I returned my focus to the letter I’d been reading before Logan had come rushing into my office all bent out of shape about her money.
Livery, Charles, James,
and Associates
1234, Main Street
Boston, MA 02123
05 April 2015
* * *
Mr. Daniel Masterson
93 Broome Street
New York NY 09009
* * *
Dear Mr. Masterson:
* * *
We are the attorneys of record for the estate of Ms. Anais Blackstone and have been entrusted with the responsibility of informing you, Mr. Daniel Masterson, that you are the direct descendant of the aforementioned Ms. Blackstone. As such, we have been directed to forward the enclosed package of documents to you.
* * *
We hold, in trust, funds in the amount of $50,000,000, as the bequest left by Anais Blackstone to you as her sole surviving heir. These funds will be payable to you upon presentation of government-issued identification confirming your identity.
* * *
Enclosed find a map to the property you have inherited in Watchung, New Jersey. We hold the deed in safe keeping for the property and all incidentals associated with it.
If you have any questions regarding the documents enclosed or the inheritance, please feel free to contact me.
* * *
Sincerely,
Robert Charles III
encl: Hand-drawn map
1989 newspaper article
Blackstone birth certificate
Fifty million dollars? Property? This must be some kind of a cruel joke. I opened the package and spread the contents across my desk. A map, drawn on cottonseed paper, identified an area in the middle of the forested area of Watchung designated a mass Indian burial site. I pulled my laptop toward me and fired up Google Streetview. Sure enough, as near as I could tell, the map pinpointed the forested area on Dug Way.
The crash of chaos that announced Greg’s imminent arrival wafted through the thick wood of my closed office door. A complete package of bluster and bullshit, he felt the need to assert his authority by issuing orders and making sure everyone focused on his every wish. He was the epitome of self-absorption, and he thrived on the attention. He seemed completely oblivious of the deep-seated dislike all but the young, nubile nymphets he hired as assistants held for him. I dropped the letter and package in my briefcase and braced myself for the onslaught.
As expected, within minutes my office door flew open, and the braggart stood filling the doorway. How can Logan stand to let that pig touch her?
He’d shed the jacket to the suit he insisted on wearing at all times, and he yanked on the belt that held his expensive wool pants in place below his gut. If you looked hard enough, you could see remnants of what had once been a handsome face hidden by the booze-reddened nose and double chin.
He scowled at me. “I see you’re still refusing to wear a suit. What kind of example are you setting for our junior associates?” Greg, who obviously considered himself above his rules, marched in and poured himself a drink from the bar. He dropped a couple of ice cubes in the glass and took the seat opposite me at the mahogany desk. “You never were one to live up to my expectations.”
“I see you’re back. Good trip?”
“Gotta grease the old monkey, you know.”
Ugh. Crude bastard.
“Anything happen around here I need to know about?”
“There are a couple of things we need to discuss, but they can wait until you settle in if you like.”
“You know what they say. There’s no time like the present and the squeaky wheel and all that. What’s up?” Greg laughed uproariously at his joke.
Cute. I sighed. Greg was getting harder to stomach by the minute.
“Why are we moving client trust accounts to an offshore bank?” No point in beating around the bush.
Greg took another swig of his whiskey and put his weeping glass on my desk, avoiding the coaster sitting there just for that very reason. With difficulty, I restrained myself from reaching over and moving it.
“What makes you think that?”
“Jim Stratton asked me for the balance in their trust account, so I asked Alice to bring me the ledger. I noticed a few odd-looking entries and asked her to explain them.”
When Alice Knight, the firm’s staff accountant, had brought her concerns regarding the suspect transfers to my attention, she’d been petrified Greg would fire her if she revealed the transfers to me. I had assured her I would protect her in any way I could and begged the universe to forgive this white lie. Not that we lawyers were opposed to a well-placed lie when it suited, but I tried to limit those to the courtroom.
“Oh, is that all. Well, there’s nothing for you to worry about. It’s all perfectly legit. We’ll just need a little more notice before we disburse any funds, but it’s all worth it for the extra interest we’ll make on the deal.”
“But, if we’re caught doing this, we’re going to land ourselves in a shitload of trouble. I’m not comfortable doing this with my clients’ money.”
“As I told you, Danny Boy, there’s nothing for you to worry about. I checked it out, and it’s all legit.” Greg’s voice took on a steely tone.
“And I told you I don’t want my clients’ money kept in offshore accounts. I’ve asked Alice to transfer it back.” I ensured the edge in my voice matched his.
“Who the fuck made you boss? I’m the senior partner here, and I call the shots.” Greg’s voice raised to a level I was sure could be heard half a block away.
“The operative word in that sentence is ‘partner,’ and as such, I call the shots for my clients.” I met his gaze and stared without blinking. It only took a moment for Greg to lower his eyes and take another swig of his drink.
“Fine, fine. I’ll look into it. Give me a few days.” Greg stood up to leave.
“One other thing…” I stared until he sat.
“Now what?”
“Logan came to see me, and she left pretty upset with both of us.”
“My wife? Why? What the fuck could she want with you? She’s barely spoken twenty-five words to you during the past six years.”
“Money seems to be the central theme of the day, and she wants hers.”
“What do you mean, she wants her money?”
“She tried to withdraw some of her advance from the bank and was told she didn’t have access without your permission.”
“So I repeat, why the fuck would she ask you?”
Patience, Daniel, patience. I inhaled air laden with the scent of Greg’s cheap cologne. The man’s ostentatiousness lacked any good taste.
“Because I’m the one you had draw up her incorporation, which included opening a current account if you recall. She wanted me to tell her how to access her hard-earned money.”
“And what did you tell her?”
I looked at him levelly for a moment before swiveling my head on my shoulders.
“I told her to get herself a good lawyer.”
Greg leaped to his feet. “You did what? You had no fucking right to advise her.”
I stood up and leaned my hands on the desk, meeting him inch for inch.
“And what do you think I should have told her? That her husband is a crook, and she can kiss her money goodbye?”
“You’d better watch it, my boy, or you’ll be out of a job faster than you can say Ponzi scheme. You should have placated her and made her feel better until I got back to handle things.”
“Two things, Greg. Stop calling me your boy and don’t ever threaten me again. I’m your partner, not your lackey. Or maybe you forget what our partnership agreement says.”
“I think you’re the one who’s forgetting what the partnership agreement says, and with my influence, I can fix it so you never work as a lawyer in this country again. In fact, with what I know about you, I can have you disbarred.”
Blowhard. I slammed my laptop shut and slipped it into my briefcase before grabbing my leather jacket off the tree and pushing past Greg. I paused with my hand on the door knob.
“There’s not one damned thing you can do to
have me disbarred, Greg. I’m clean, which is more than you can say.”
“Oh yeah, ass wipe? Watch me.”
“I’m out of here before one of us says something we can’t take back.”
Fuming, I took the service elevator to the parking garage and slipped behind the wheel of my beloved Aston Martin. I leaned my head against the leather-covered steering wheel for a moment, willing myself to calm down. When I arrived home, I poured a healthy glass of rum and Pepsi, sat at the kitchen table, and tried to make sense of my life.
After law school, I’d done my civic duty and tried my hand at being a public defender. Then, six years ago, Greg came along and dangled a high six-figure salary along with a very attractive bonus package. I was frustrated with the bureaucracy and politics surrounding the law and feeling a lot like Al Pacino’s character in And Justice for All. Coupling that with my dreams of being a self-made man, I made the leap. Little had I known that what Greg wanted most from me was a ticket into the world of my parents’ friends and associates.
Yes, I come from money, old money. Or should I say, who I thought were my parents came from old money. I grew up with all the privileges of the wealthy without the trappings of the nouveau riche; so here I sat, well-mannered, well-educated, and well-bred. It didn’t take long to figure out Greg’s ulterior motive, but the work was interesting, and I welcomed the chance to grow a firm from the bottom up. It was important to me to make it on my own and not because of my family’s influence.
Now, the work was no longer all that interesting, but I’d made my mark and built my reputation. Job offers frequently came, including the one to become a senior partner at one of the most prestigious firms on Wall Street. And all that before the age of forty.
It all sounded pretty good until I remembered I’m related to some Blackstone, whoever the hell that was. It was damned near midnight, but I didn’t care. I reached for the phone. It was time to get some answers.
Ticket to Temptation Page 2