by July Hall
“So is, uh, is Craig going to be allowed to join the Union now?” Bradley asked as they headed to one of the dining rooms. “I mean, after he marries Stephen, does that give him an automatic ‘in’?”
The boy sounded bewildered, as well he might. This was a men’s club. Getting in through marriage was something of a recent notion. “It will if he wants it,” Charles decided. “He’s been a guest here often enough.”
“Some of these guys might make a fuss,” Bradley said, straightening his tie. “I bet there’s talk.”
“There’s always talk,” Charles growled. They reached the dining room, where the host guided them to their assigned table. Pierce Loemann and Lawrence Cooke awaited them for lunch and the discussion of a loan to one of Magister’s subsidiaries. Bradley had been instructed to eat, to listen, and to say very little.
He accomplished all three well enough until they got to dessert, when the discussions turned personal. Lawrence was already tipsy, so he was a little too willing to speak his mind. When Magister Enterprises had bought out his company four years ago, letting him stay on was part of the deal, but his drinking was becoming a real problem. Once the dust had settled in Hong Kong, Charles would have to shake things up all over again.
Now Lawrence said, “So, this brother of yours…getting married, is he?”
Pierce concentrated on his berry tart. Bradley took a sip of his water. Charles said mildly, “Yes. Expect an invitation.”
“Times have changed, haven’t they? Times have changed.” Lawrence hiccupped. “Oh, sorry.”
“Uncle Charles and I were wondering if Craig would be allowed to join the club,” Bradley said blithely.
Charles gave him a swift look, but it was too late. For one second, Pierce got an expression of absolute horror on his face; Charles saw it, and Pierce knew Charles saw it.
“Well.” Pierce cleared his throat. “That will come up for a vote, naturally. But I don’t see why…” His voice trailed off, and he frowned. “Damn it all, Charles, I know he’s your brother, but are you really happy about this?”
“My brother’s happiness is what matters,” Charles said through his teeth. “Craig is very—likeable. Appropriate. From a good family.”
To his annoyance, Bradley asked, “They’ve totally disowned him, though, right?” He shook his head. “It’s really sad.”
“He’ll be one of us,” Charles said quietly. “One of our own.”
“Are there going to be a lot of gays at this wedding?” Lawrence demanded, loud enough for men at other tables to give them curious looks.
Truth to tell, Charles had been wondering the same thing. Nothing put your convictions to the test like having to stand by them. Once, he’d attended dinner at Stephen’s home, and Stephen had invited another gay couple. They’d been extremely affectionate with each other, and Charles had fought all night to hide his discomfort. (Rosalie, however, had appeared entranced.)
“Stephen’s the one who gets to decide,” he replied. “We’ll be happy to host whoever attends.” Including his own secret lover. Damn it all, indeed. He couldn’t point any fingers.
“His…uh…partner’s a lot younger than he is,” Lawrence pointed out, as if sharing new and vital information.
“Well.” Pierce gave a forced, hearty laugh. “He’d hardly be the first. Say, Charles—”
“That’s true,” Lawrence agreed. He sighed. “A trophy husband. When you get right down to it, we men are all the same, aren’t we? Equal-opportunity idiots for a pretty face.”
Charles pursed his lips. Bradley leaned forward and said, “That sounds a little cynical, Mr. Cooke. Do you really think the age gap makes such a huge difference? Uncle Stephen really seems to love Craig.” He counted on his fingers. “They’re, uh, ten years apart. That doesn’t seem so bad.”
Was the boy trying to make up for his earlier slip, when he’d rolled his eyes at Stephen’s announcement? It was too little, too late for that. In the moment, all he was doing was making Charles grind his jaw so hard he’d need a dental appointment.
Bradley continued, “I mean, just last year Mr. Folger married Marissa and she’s, what, twenty years younger? And he seems happy. It doesn’t have to be such a huge deal, does it?”
Pierce sighed. “I wish I could be your age again, when everything seemed simple. Marissa is beautiful, and Jim Folger could afford her.” He glanced at Charles. “I don’t mean to throw your brother in with that, of course. Ten years is quite different from twenty.”
Charles wanted to invite all three of them outside so they could settle this like men. That might, however, look a little odd. He tried to think of a more appropriate response. What was wrong with him? Why was he seeing red instead of being able to deal with this rationally?
Before he could say anything, though, Lawrence broke in with, “Bradley is also seeing a lovely young lady, last I heard. The redhead at that party.” He gave a sloppy grin. “Legs that went on for days, you lucky dog. How’s that going?”
The red mist got even redder. At least this time, Charles wasn’t alone in his discomfort. Bradley swallowed hard and said stiffly, “Sandra and I decided it wasn’t working out. We’re better off as friends.”
Pierce looked immediately sympathetic. “Ah, well, better luck next time.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” Bradley said, recovering his composure. “In fact, she’ll even be at the wedding.” He shook his head with a chuckle. “I’m glad. She’s a sweet kid. She’ll look like a million bucks. Maybe she can meet somebody else.”
“Oh, I’d lay money on that,” Lawrence said. “Somebody with deep pockets. That’s what they all want.”
“Lawrence,” Charles said coldly, and that was all. He didn’t trust himself to say more. It was enough, though. With an apologetic mumble, Lawrence finished his fourth martini.
Pierce cleared his throat and raised his own martini glass in Bradley’s direction. “Well, cheers to the most mature young man I’ve met in a long time. Let me tell you, if everyone was as level-headed as you, the world would be an easier place.” He glanced at Charles with a smile. “Maybe you get it from your uncle.”
“Maybe I do.” Bradley flashed his most dazzling grin, the one that made everyone feel right at home. “That’d be pretty lucky, wouldn’t it?” He raised his own glass and extended it to Charles. “To the level-headed Magister men.”
It wasn’t his fault, Charles reminded himself, trying not to grind his jaw into powder. For once, Bradley was trying to be reasonable, even helpful. He was trying to grow up. Charles was the one whose reactions were out of line.
Keeping this firmly in mind, he clinked Bradley’s glass with his own instead of driving it into the boy’s face.
* * *
Sandra didn’t hear from Arnaud for the rest of the day. She didn’t hear from him until one in the morning, as a matter of fact, when her phone rang.
She blinked groggily at Arnaud’s name on the screen. She swiped her thumb and mumbled, “Hello?”
“Richard Zhou,” Arnaud said. “Hong Kong. Runs casinos in Macau. Interests include French Impressionism, rare motor vehicles, and body parts.”
She couldn’t have heard that right. “Body parts?”
“In addition to a Ru brush washer, he owns one of John Lennon’s teeth.”
“Um…” Sandra was pretty sure Charles didn’t own anybody’s teeth or any other body parts, but she could ask. “Let me write this down.” She rolled out of bed and stumbled toward her desk. “Richard Zhou, you said? Casinos?”
“Casinos, Hong Kong, Macau,” Arnaud repeated. “Call that butler and get a list of Mr. Magister’s potential assets. I’d better go.”
“Oh, wow. I guess…drinks must have gone well?” Then she winced. Oh shit. She must be groggier than she thought. Had she really just asked her boss if he’d seduced information out of somebody?
“Drinks went well,” Arnaud replied. “She was very open to splitting something I’ll call an ‘inquiry fee’ on the expense r
eport.”
“Great,” Sandra said hastily. Yeah, money talked more than anything. She was an idiot. “That’s amazing, Arnaud. Thank you.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” Arnaud reminded her. Sandra blushed. Before she could apologize, though, she heard a sultry female voice speaking in the background.
“En un instant, ma chérie,” Arnaud said. “Sandra?”
She blushed even harder. “Um. Yeah?”
“From here on out, it’s up to you. I hired you, so show me what you’ve got.”
She squared her shoulders like she was coming to attention. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll figure everything out.”
“I’m counting on it. Good night.” Arnaud hung up.
She rubbed her forehead. Well…Arnaud’s reputation evidently wasn’t an exaggeration.
But she couldn’t dwell on that. She had work to do. Sandra started scribbling down the information by the streetlights that shone through her blinds. Maybe she was still asleep and dreaming after all.
As she wrote, though, the reality of the situation dawned on her, and her heart began fluttering with excitement. This might actually happen. She could actually make this happen. It was up to her.
She glanced toward her bedroom door. She could see light shining through from the living room. Kristen was always up late. Suddenly, Sandra wanted to share the triumph with her. Kristen would want to know, right?
She left her room and sure enough, Kristen sat at the kitchen table with a textbook open in front of her while she took down notes. She pulled out one of her earbuds when she saw Sandra. “Whoah, what is it?” she asked.
“Arnaud found something!” Sandra said. “He tracked down somebody who actually owns a Ru ware piece. I have to get in touch with him and see if he’s willing to sell or trade.” She couldn’t help herself. She bounced up and down and clapped her hands. “It’s the first lead we’ve got. I have to make it happen.”
Kristen actually grinned. “I knew Arnaud could do it. I told you.”
Sandra’s excitement soured for a moment. Yes, Arnaud had done it, not her. But she had the follow-up, so that was something.
“How’d he do it?” Kristen pressed.
“Oh, he knew this woman,” Sandra said. Best not to give any specifics, even to Kristen, who might blab about them if she got high enough with her friends. “And this woman likes him a lot, and…” She waved dismissively. “You know how it goes.”
Kristen’s eyes widened. “He—” There was a snapping sound. They both looked down to see that she’d broken the tip of her pencil against her notebook. “Oh shit.” She reached for the small plastic sharpener next to her textbook. “Well, that’s just great. What the hell kind of world do you live in, where that’s what people have to do?”
“Kristen,” Sandra said in astonishment. She rubbed a hand over her face, suddenly getting tired all over again. The last thing she needed was the high horse. “What’s your problem? I just thought you’d like to know. He didn’t have to do anything.”
Kristen jammed the pencil into the sharpener and began twisting it. A tiny peel of yellow-edged wood began curling out from beneath the blade. “He didn’t?”
“Arnaud likes women. Women like Arnaud.” If she mentioned the fee split, Kristen would just start railing about capitalism too. “He sounded like he had a pretty good time.”
“Awesome.” Kristen shook the sharpener so that pencil and lead shavings fell out over the table. Sandra glared. Those better not be there in the morning. “Listen, I’ve got that test tomorrow, okay?”
“Oh. Sure,” Sandra sighed. “Good luck with it, if I don’t see you before then.”
“You won’t.” Kristen turned her pencil over and began furiously erasing something in her notebook. “You’re always gone when I get up.”
Dismissed, Sandra retreated to her bedroom, her excitement a little dimmed. Then she looked down at her notes and felt it light up all over again. If Arnaud wasn’t sleeping on this intelligence, then neither was she.
Sandra woke up her tablet and set out to learn everything she could about Richard Zhou.
* * *
He needed to see her.
After yesterday’s lunch from hell, followed by a sleepless night, Charles needed to see Sandra. Hear her voice. Touch her skin. Make love to her—and more than that, show her that she was treasured, cherished, adored.
And his.
He looked down over a balance sheet and failed to focus on it. He’d never had trouble focusing on balance sheets before this girl. Never. He needed to see her.
Would his mark still be on the inside of her thigh, the imprint of his kiss where no one else would know?
You use me, she’d whispered. You push me down and fuck me to pieces because you can’t help yourself. That’s what I’m for.
Ridiculous. He was busy. He had work to do. Magister work.
We’ll do it like that next time.
Why the hell weren’t these numbers adding up? Was there a real error, or was it because he couldn’t focus? Was he so off his game? He had to get it together. Keisha Davies, his chief financial officer, would arrive within fifteen minutes.
I was made for you to fuck.
At the thought, at the mere memory of her voice, he threw his pen down on his desk. How fortunate that he was alone in his office. How unfortunate that he was not alone with her.
How was she doing this to him? He’d been asking himself that from the start. Now that they were lovers, he was no closer to an answer.
Damn the Union Club anyway. All that talk of trophy wives, men being fools for a pretty face, “affording” a beautiful woman, age differences. A month ago, he would have nodded his head along to all of it and perhaps thrown in a judgmental remark for good measure. He was Charles Magister. He’d already known the love of his life. He’d never stoop to being a joke.
Yes, all of that was true, but against it he placed Sandra. Sandra, who wanted nothing. Sandra, who cared for him, took chances to be with him—but only so many chances, and who might not care enough.
What the hell did Pierce Loemann or Lawrence “I Don’t Have a Problem” Cooke know? Talking about Jim Folger and his gold-digging wife, whom Jim knew to be a gold-digger. Jim didn’t care because Marissa looked good and said the right things at parties. That was his prerogative.
Jim didn’t want to eat Marissa up, keep her in his arms and never let her go, make love night and day and then do it all over again. He didn’t know what it was like to ache with desire all the way down to his bones or to wonder if he was going insane. He probably didn’t dream about the smell of his woman’s cunt, or the broken little whimpers she gave right after orgasm. Or the graceful tilt of her head and the elegant dart of her fingers when she played the piano.
He’d told Sandra that they would meet for dinner sometime this week. “Sometime” was now officially tonight.
Charles checked his watch. It was nearly four. If he wasn’t careful, then “sometime” might turn into a late-afternoon rendezvous in a seedy hotel on the West Side Highway. She seemed to enjoy those sorts of antics. She certainly enjoyed them more than she would exposure and ridicule.
He gave the balance sheet one final look of disgust, and then texted her. Dinner tonight, 7 p.m. It was not a request.
And yet, not five minutes later, she texted back: No can do, Mr. Bossy. I’ve got to meet w/some people late. Trust me, you won’t mind ;)
He wouldn’t mind? It was like she’d never met him. Charles checked his schedule again. Seven more minutes until he had to meet with the CFO.
He called her. She picked up on the second ring. “Hello, Mr. Magister,” she said.
Damn. She wasn’t alone. Charles ground his teeth. “Why won’t I mind?” he demanded.
“Ah—just a second. Let me check that information for you in my office. Excuse me,” she added. Charles heard the murmur of other voices in the background.
A few moments later, she said, “I’m at work. What’
s so urgent it can’t wait?”
He could have torn out his own hair. His self-control was turning to shreds, and she sounded reproving on the phone. He tried to keep his voice even. “We mentioned having dinner this week,” he said. “I thought tonight would be good.”
“Well, it would have been, but something sort of came up. I—” She paused and then rushed on. “I know I should wait to tell you, but I can’t. We found a Ru ware piece.”
He sure as hell hadn’t been expecting that. “You did?” For a moment, Charles suffocated his lust just long enough to be shocked. And impressed. “Where?”
“Well, Arnaud, um, found out who bought that piece at the Sotheby’s auction. It’s a guy in Hong Kong who runs casinos. We sent an inquiry this morning and got a personal reply just a couple of hours later. I’ve been talking to Warrick about the stuff in your house and…”
“Slow down. The stuff in my house?”
“Oh!” She sounded sheepish. “Well—the guy doesn’t want money. Arnaud had an idea. Do you know what rare trading is?”
“I think I can guess,” Charles said. “Which of my possessions did you and Warrick decide to trade?”
“None of them,” Sandra said. She sounded annoyed. “He sent me a list of the things you own outright, not Rosalie or Stephen. I was going to e-mail you and ask if there was anything you’d be willing to part with. If there is, then this brokerage firm goes to look at the Ru ware and makes sure it’s the real deal; Mr. Zhou appraises whatever he wants of yours, if he wants anything.”
Charles considered this.
“Charles,” she added in a low voice, “I know this wasn’t your idea. Just tell me now, and I’ll call the whole thing off. I only wanted—” After a pause, she continued, “I wanted to find it for you. I can’t afford to give it to you, but I wanted to show you…anyway, are you still there?”
“Hong Kong?” Charles said.
“Yes,” Sandra said, sounding relieved that he was still on the line and asking a reasonable question. “He runs casinos out of Macau. He’s into teeth,” she added. “I mean, he’s got…never mind. It’s weird.”