Magdalene

by Moriah Jovan

  “Are you seeing someone?” he asked abruptly. Typical. “As in, for real, not business? You’re different. Olivia says you’ve been distant. Clarissa misses you.”

  “Clarissa?” I snorted. “She wouldn’t miss me if I got myself shot off to Mars.”

  “That’s not true. She’s been with us for the last three Friday nights. Whining.” And here I thought she had a boyfriend. “Paige won’t speak to her except to tell her to shut her mouth.”

  Oh, yes. Mitch had cemented that alliance quite nicely.

  “Look, Gord, I meant what I said. No more money. And if you really wanted my forgiveness, you’d confess your sins, so I have to assume you don’t.” I hung up and immediately hit the speed dial.

  “Tracey.”

  “Nigel, we need to talk.”

  “Oh, God, he didn’t call you to ask for money again, did he?”

  I said nothing to that for half a second. “Did you know about that all along?”

  My ex-husband’s husband chuckled. “Cassie. I work across the Street from you. I have lunch with you three times a week. I can hear the girls bitching about what a dry well you are, add up the money Gordon spends but doesn’t have, and put two and two together. What I can never figure out is why you still give it to him.”

  “Get a clue, Nigel.”

  “Do you think,” he said, “that it does you any good to continue to let them think you’re the villain of the piece?”

  “Don’t pull out the Jung on me, Nigel. I prosecuted the man. You married him.”

  “He gives good head.”

  That made me chuckle.

  “And I get to reap the vicarious rewards of having stepkids who think he’s the greatest father that ever lived and, by extension, me too. It’s sickening how they treat you, and what’s more sickening is that you let them.”

  Don’t you dare shut that door on me... Why do you put up with that?

  “Gordon doesn’t seem to mind,” I said, though I struggled to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “He could fix this, but he doesn’t have the balls.”

  Nigel couldn’t disagree with me. “Well, he has been better about trying to defend you,” he offered.

  Poor people food again? Cassie, I’m not eating poor people food and I’m not going to let the girls eat it, either. We’re going for Thai. You’re welcome to come with us as long as you don’t bitch about the prices.

  “Unless he tells them the truth,” I said, low, a slow rage building in my gut, even though, truly, it was the last thing I wanted. I just wanted him to be willing to do it. “I don’t care what other lame attempts he makes at amends. I do not want to be the recipient of some late-date half-assed apologetics just because he’s the born-again spouse to a Wall Street top.”

  “Then quit being such a fucking martyr,” Nigel snapped back at me. “Don’t expect him to do something when you live with them. You let them treat you like shit. If you treated them the way you treat your clients, you’d have their respect, but no— You act like you’re begging for crumbs from their table. You’re not a beacon of hope to feminism when you do that.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I was the victim.”

  Nigel growled.

  “Good luck with your man’s spending habits. You might have been able to retire early on the alimony I’ve been paying under the table.”

  “Fine. Lunch is on you from now on.”

  “Fine.”

  “So,” Nigel said the next day as we sat down to lunch. Out of sheer perversity, I’d chosen a little deli. No expensive lunch for the husband-in-law today. “Who is he?”

  “Who is who?” I asked once I’d swallowed a bite of salmon. And oh, this deli’s fish was divine.

  “The man who’s kept you from bugging your little shits to death. Olivia says you’re virtually dreamy, there’s been an abrupt cease to the daily phone calls at inconvenient moments, and Paige is keeping the lid on whatever Clarissa knows. And speaking of Clarissa, you do know that your standing Friday-night date has glommed onto us, right?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ah, the pleasures of providing a roof for my children.

  “The guy who sends you flowers on Friday.”

  I didn’t think I’d ever be able to breathe again. “How do you know about that?”

  “Please. It’s all over the financial district. Everybody thinks you’re moonlighting.”

  “God, no. I haven’t had sex with anybody but myself for the last four years and I only started that up again two months ago.”

  He looked at me strangely. “A man sends you flowers every Friday for two months and keeps you out until the wee hours of the weekend and you’re not sleeping with him?”

  “Nope.”

  Nigel snorted. “What is he, a Mormon?” When I remained silent, he choked on his beer. “No,” he breathed.

  I still didn’t say a word. As far as I knew, there were only two available Mormon males in the country who could afford to date me. One of them was gay and the other one had hired me to reorganize his company. And since the funds Nigel managed specialized in manufacturing...

  “Oh, shit, Cass. Hollander’s the mother lode.”

  And didn’t I know it. Any other time, I might have preened at the awe in his voice. “You keep your mouth shut, Nigel. You could teach TMZ a thing or two about breaking news.”

  “Does Jack know? He must not because your building hasn’t blown up yet.”

  I snorted.

  “Did Taight set you up?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to join that pack of nutjobs.”

  “Of course not. And they’re not nutjobs,” I said, feeling terribly defensive all of a sudden. “Does Hollander seem like a nutjob to you?”

  “Well, no. He’s such a brilliantly sneaky bastard I assumed he was an anomaly.”

  “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
r />   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 myself 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.”