Devil You Know

by Bagshawe, Louise

  Sod it, Daisy thought. She could call her girlfriend Lucy and crib from her notes. She just could not drag herself out to do one more unpleasant thing. Daisy walked into the bathroom and peeled off her rain-drenched clothes, running a hot bath, pouring her Radox bath essence under the tap and watching the white, scented clouds of bubbles rise up the sides of the ancient tub. Fantastic. She jumped in, washing herself, making it as warm as she could bear it.

  It got so cold here in the winter she sometimes thought she would never get warm. Baths were a help, and, right now, her only real pleasure most days.

  She knew she should wash her hair. Not let the Edwina cow see her like this. But she was just too exhausted to spend forty minutes blow-drying it. Fuck it, she could just keep her hair twisted in this French pleat. All she needed to do was look respectable …

  The misery of it engulfed her soul the way the warm water was lapping at her body.

  God, Daisy thought, tears prickling at the back of her throat, will anything ever go right for me again?

  She’d once thought that if she could lose weight, she’d be happy, and everything would be OK. What a laugh. Now, sadness and overwork had managed to do what willpower couldn’t, and she was a perfectly respectable size 12.

  And she didn’t think she’d ever felt more worthless in her life.

  But Daisy wasn’t going to let it show. She owed it to Edward to turn up tonight. He’d always looked out for her; she wasn’t going to ruin his happiness now.

  She reached for one of the big white towels that came with the place and swaddled herself in it. Maybe she’d go out and get a bottle of wine or something; no, one of those ready-mixed gin and tonics they sold in the individual bottles. She was gonna need a drink just to get up the courage to go to the bar!

  Daisy dispiritedly reached out to her answer machine and pressed play.

  “You have one message,” said the electronic voice soothingly. It beeped. A woman’s voice came on.

  “Hi, this message is for Daisy Markham,” she said. Daisy could hear the sounds of a busy office in the background. “This is Gemma Brown in Ted Elliott’s office. Mr. Elliott received your material and he’d like to talk to you about representation. Can you call us back on 01 555 5764? Thanks very much.”

  Twenty-Three

  “I’ve got something I think you should see,” George Benham told her.

  Rose looked at him with her unreadable expression. She sat in front of him in a well-cut, vintage Chanel suit that belied her youth, her dark fountain of hair twisted behind her head in a sleek chignon. She kept her makeup light; startling beauty like hers needed no help, anyway.

  Benham tried not to obsess over the plum lips, the endless tumbling legs, or those she-wolf eyes. It didn’t matter how respectably Rose Fiorello dressed. All he thought about was pulling off that jacket, slipping those pumps off her slender ankles, reaching up to loosen that glossy waterfall of hair. He imagined her naked whenever he saw her. She made him as horny as a teenager.

  He didn’t dare let it show. One false move and the ice-queen would fire him. And he could not afford to lose her business. He owed his new Mercedes to it.

  Benham remembered the first time he had seen Rose. She had sounded so straitlaced on the phone he’d been shocked when a student walked into his office, wearing skinny jeans and a plain white shirt.

  “You’re Rose Fiorello?”

  “That’s right,” she’d said, those pale eyes daring him to disbelieve her.

  “But Rose Fiorello owns four buildings…”

  His voice had trailed off.

  “Right again.” She had laid a cardboard folder in front of him. Inside it were neatly typed-out operating statements, with rental incomes, costs, and taxes laid out as professionally as any spreadsheet from a real company.

  “You seem very young to own so many units,” Benham mumbled.

  The cold look in her eye said she didn’t appreciate the comment.

  “I only own fifteen. I was hoping you would work with me to find some more.” The vision had sprung to her feet, preparing to storm out.

  “Wait a second—ma’am. I’m sorry. Benham Realty would love to do business with you. Won’t you have a seat?”

  Since that day a year ago they had worked together.

  Well, he had pretty much been working for Rose. It meant total dedication, late nights, credit checks, hours of phone calls to lawyers and hours of negotiations. But he’d fast learned to do whatever he was told. The commissions made everything worth it.

  In the first six months, he’d closed five more deals.

  Rose Fiorello was a powerhouse. She now owned nine buildings, with a total of thirty-one units. She had occupancy at 100 percent, with a waiting list, for her apartments. She raked in over fifty thousand a year in profits, and paid peanuts in taxes.

  And she was still at college.

  Rose discouraged talk about her personal life. Benham wondered if she really had one. But look at her—she must be fucking some lucky bastard.

  “What is it?”

  She had that skeptical look. He hated that look. Rose Fiorello rejected 90 percent of the deals he brought her. But it only took one deal to get that fat commission he loved.

  Even his wife was into it, nagging him less and screwing him more. He hastened to convince her.

  “That last foreclosure you brought me was a real dog, George.”

  “Yeah, well. This is a little different. It’s not what you’ve been doing up to now.” He knew the one thing that would convince her. “It’s a bigger deal. The next step. You might not be ready for it…”

  The wolf-eyes glinted. “Let me be the judge of that.”

  “Of course, Ms. Fiorello. Well … This isn’t in foreclosure yet, but it will be. It’s a motel. The guy just doesn’t know how to run a hotel business…”

  Benham didn’t know if Rose would, either. It was a long-shot, but he gave her all his long-shots. She turned down almost everything, so he plastered her with deals. Benham Realty specialized in foreclosures. He had tentacles everywhere. Now people were coming to him, because word had leaked out that Fiorello gave more money to owners than anybody else. If you had something worth selling, she threw you a lifeline.

  “Are you interested in the hotel business, Ms. Fiorello?”

  The thick black lashes flickered. “No.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment. “Well, I have some other nice properties to show you, an eight-family in Red Hook—”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t interested in the property.”

  She extended one manicured hand.

  George Benham was confused, but he handed it over. He watched, almost holding his breath, as Rose skimmed through the details. She was like a very chic hawk, hovering above her prey, waiting to pounce.

  With every deal he had seen her outward appearance change. As soon as Rose had money, she had appeared in his office in new shoes, with a matching bag. There followed suits and dresses, each outfit a little more upmarket than the last. It was like she couldn’t wait to shed her working-class skin. And now she was wearing Chanel, with a slim gold watch on her wrist and a good string of pearls.

  The one thing which hadn’t changed was the sense of the deal. Or the drive. Benham had expected she would make some money, then settle down and marry an investment banker. But if anything, success had only made her hungrier.

  “This is interesting,” she said finally.

  His whole face brightened. “You want me to make an offer?”

  Hell, Benham’s commission on this one—three percent of the Rego Park hotel … six hundred thousand … three percent … thirty-six thousand dollars. A fine mist of sweat broke out on his forehead.

  “It’s really a jewel of a property…”

  “It’s a dump, George. A roach-infested dump.” Rose tapped the papers. “I’m going to have a look at these.”

  “I have more for you—”

  “I don’t need to see them.” She stood up, and the
expensive hose she was wearing slithered against her skin. “I must go; I’m late for class.”

  Rose Fiorello walked out of George Benham’s office, leaving nothing behind her but the faint scent of lavender.

  He thought he would have traded the thirty-six thousand for five minutes between those long, lean thighs. But who was he kidding? She was so hot, he probably wouldn’t last thirty-six seconds.

  *

  “Oh! Jacobhhh! Ohhhh!”

  Emily Clarkson raked her French-polished nails over Jacob Rothstein’s chest as her back arched in orgasm. He felt a surge of pride mingling with the pleasure as he exploded inside her, as if he had just scored a walk-off home run. Emily’s breasts jiggled stiffly. They were implants, but Jacob really didn’t care about that. He just enjoyed watching another prim and proper Boston Brahmin sobbing with pleasure, her three-hundred-dollar hair cut plastered to her forehead.

  “Oh … oh…” Emily panted, as he slipped out of her, reaching to take off his condom. She’d said she was on the pill, but Jacob didn’t take any chances. His father and uncles were always lecturing the Rothstein boys … no glove, no love … the family fortune was just too large, they said, for women to resist trying to trap them.

  Jacob had no intention of being a parent before his time. Bringing up a child with a woman you didn’t love, didn’t even like much … what a frigging nightmare. No thanks.

  “Jacob … you’re incredible.”

  “Thanks, sugar.” He gave her a friendly pat on her ass, which was a touch too skinny. “You’re gorgeous.”

  “You think so?” She blushed crimson with pleasure.

  Rothstein propped himself up on his elbow. This was the tricky bit, but he was a master at it. How to make it clear to a girl that there was no future in it, but on the other hand, leave them with their self-respect.

  Jacob had nothing against Emily. She was a great fuck. She was also a nice girl. Kind to animals, that sort of thing.

  But she was as bland as tap water, and he was a whiskey-sour guy.

  Besides, Jacob believed every woman could be a great fuck. You just had to work them up the right way. He was an egotist, and loved watching women’s bodies leap and arch under his touch, loved feeling them writhe against his chest muscles, loved how they rippled around him when he made them convulse in helpless climax.

  “Sure. I’ve been watching you for months. I remember that blue dress you wore to the polo match in June…”

  “You noticed,” Emily breathed. She pushed her floppy fringe out of her eyes.

  “Of course. I always notice a beautiful woman with an independent spirit.” Jacob gave her a friendly smile. “I knew we’d get on great. I’d like to see you again, if you’re ever free. A gorgeous chick like you will get snapped up by some boyfriend soon…”

  He could see by the sharp flash of annoyance in her brown eyes that she’d registered this.

  “Aren’t you gonna be my boyfriend?” Emily asked, in a little-girl voice.

  Jacob flinched inwardly. She wasn’t marriage material; he employed the double standard: he wanted a modest wife. And anyway, he hated women who pretended to be helpless. They were no challenge, not like …

  No. He wasn’t going to think about her.

  “I’m no good to anybody as a boyfriend. I’m not really ready for a relationship, and I don’t want to cheat anybody … especially a girl who’s so pretty she can do better whenever she wants.”

  “I guess. When you put it that way,” Emily said uncertainly.

  Jacob rubbed her thighs. “Doesn’t mean we can’t see each other, though. If you want to of course.”

  She felt a little of the heat returning. “Yeah, I’d like that…”

  He heard the footsteps a fraction too late. His bedroom door was wide open, and Rose Fiorello was standing in front of it.

  “Oh! Excuse me,” Rose stammered. She gently closed his door, and Jake heard her footsteps running away.

  Damn it. He grimaced in annoyance.

  That was another mistake. Emily was looking at him with that furious, hurt look chicks always got when they realized they weren’t the only female he was interested in.

  “Maybe that’s your girlfriend?”

  Her petulant tone was grating.

  “She’s a study partner.”

  Emily got up from the bed, grabbing her clothes as she went.

  “Sure. That’s what they call them now!”

  “It was my fault. I forgot we had to meet for an essay class … She came here, I didn’t lock the door.”

  “Convenient,” Emily hissed.

  “Believe what you want,” Jake said neutrally.

  Thankfully, she was getting dressed, tugging on her chinos and mules.

  “Right, because so many students wear Chanel,” Emily snapped. She picked up her coat and bag and stumbled toward the door. “Maybe you can give me a call when you finally grow up, Jake.”

  He sat there as she slammed the door, muttering curses. Jake breathed out in relief. Don’t hold your breath, baby.

  How could he have forgotten Rose was coming here?

  Jake grinned. Woman trouble. His usual.

  He slipped out of bed and into the shower. Most student rooms didn’t have them, but his father had slipped Columbia such a large donation that Jake Rothstein had whatever he wanted. These rooms had previously belonged to a tenured professor. They had a neatly tiled bathroom and even a small kitchenette area, which he never used because he preferred to eat out.

  The shower came in handy, though, when you had as much sex as Rothstein did. Plus, it was a bonus to be able to go running in the mornings and not have to line up to use the communal showers afterward.

  “Why do you even want to room there?” his father had asked.

  Jake shrugged. “Student experience.”

  “You have the place on Eighty-fifth Street.” For his last birthday, his father had handed him the deeds to one of his many apartments: a glorious pre-war duplex with views of the river, eighteen-foot ceilings, marble floors, and an obsequious doorman. Fred Rothstein had heard of his son’s reputation as a stud from the irate parents of several young debs in his social circle. It was the one thing about his child that really pleased him. He had imagined Jake fucking his brains out in the Upper East Side place. Money like that made women drop their panties at the drop of a hat.

  “It’s great, Dad. But I want to be like the other students.”

  Well, up to a point. Fred Rothstein wasn’t having his kid treated like cattle. That was for the poor.

  He had compromised on the best student rooms money could buy. Jake didn’t fight him. A private bathroom was a necessity.

  In his shower, Jake let the water sluice over his chest, soaping himself off briskly. He was tickled. It was good to get rid of Emily. And he liked the idea of Rose Fiorello catching him in bed. Arrogant bitch. He wanted her to see other women with him, to be jealous.

  Jake Rothstein was egotistical, but he could usually back it up. Women flung themselves at him. Even the ones who played hard to get eventually wound up squirming underneath him. And after they broke up, he would still get calls.

  Jake’s private theory was that most guys sucked in bed. Otherwise why would his girls always be ready and willing?

  All except Rose Fiorello.

  She had started out acting up. Insulting him regularly. Jake had taken it as a mating call. There was a certain type of woman that liked to provoke, to challenge. They wanted reassurance that he was a dominant male.

  Jake always gave it to them. He never stood for bullshit from a female.

  It was his way or the highway. Jake thought the aggressive types were his favorite. It was a particular pleasure to pin those girls to the bed, to make them explode in ecstatic submission.

  But Rose had not followed her standoffish signals with come-hither ones. Instead, over the last academic year, she had become polite—almost friendly, but not quite. She went out of her way to be helpful, as far as t
heir studies went. She was an indispensable research partner. But it was as though she couldn’t bring herself to be really warm.

  He wanted her.

  Despite the fact that he’d just had Emily, he wanted Rose. It aroused him to think of Rose walking into his bedroom.

  But he couldn’t do anything about it right now. Jake turned the water to cold, blasting himself. That was better. He couldn’t walk into Rose’s room with a hard-on. Never let them see you’re interested.

  Jake dressed himself quickly. She was almost too beautiful. Most girls on campus were somewhat insecure; they always had to have a man, or they’d start talking about how they’d just dumped some poor sucker. It was still considered embarrassing for a chick to be single. Even at the start of the Nineties.

  Not for Rose Fiorello, though. She was just too beautiful for it to matter. That slender figure, that fountain of hair, the she-wolf eyes, the high, arrogant cheekbones. Every man wanted her. She didn’t need a status symbol.

  *

  “Rose?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  She opened the door to his knock. Pink Chanel, Gucci shoes, expensive-looking hose. Completely incongruous in a college setting. Emily had been right. Why was she dressed so smartly?

  If you crossed a senator with a supermodel, she’d look like this.

  “Come in, Jake.” Rose gave him that smile of hers, the empty one. She was as pleasant and as impersonal as a doctor’s receptionist. “Sorry about earlier.”

  He noticed the discreet flash of gold at her wrist.

  How the hell did she afford this? A year ago she’d worn jeans and beat-up sneakers. She’d castigated him for being a rich boy.

  “I thought … the door was open.” The faintest tint of red was on her olive-skinned cheeks.

  “My fault. I forgot to lock it.” He grinned at her. “I was a little distracted.”

  Rose refused to let the picture flash back into her mind. Jake Rothstein, with his muscular chest, its smattering of hair, sitting up in bed, those dark-lashed eyes staring at her. And the girl, her skin all sweaty and mottled from sex, squealing, glaring at Rose with jealous hatred. Like Rose wanted her precious stud!

  You’re only one in a long line, honey, she’d thought. Didn’t the bimbette know that?