Diana nodded. Sex was a sore point in their relationship. Somehow she just did not feel right about taking him to her bed yet. Maybe she was turning into an old-fashioned girl, but she didn’t think so. He kept hinting about marriage. Maybe she was subconsciously holding out for a ring. Who the fuck knew? She really didn’t herself.
“He knows we’ll do it when the time is right.”
Claire made a face. “Do it? You sound like a teenage boy. How about make love?”
“That too.” Diana smiled. “You really think this is too plain?”
“You want to put the fear of God into Ernie, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Then you need to make a splash.” Claire brushed her aside and delved into the walk-in closet. “Take the dark green. It sets off your eyes.” She held up a floor-length Chloe gown in rich green velvet with a seed-pearl trim around the waist. It pleated gently over the breasts, to emphasize them, and then hugged her butt and tapered down into a fishtail. It was an exact fit; nothing but a tiny thong would slip under that.
“I can’t,” Diana muttered. “It looks too good.”
“You sound like you’re more than afraid of that Michael guy,” Claire said. “I think you’re in love with him. Otherwise why would you care?”
“Nonsense.” She snatched the gown out of her friend’s hand. “I don’t care what he thinks one way or the other. Give it to me. I’ll wear it.”
THIRTY-SIX
She stepped out of the limo in a rustle of warm, rich velvet and looked up at the hotel. Several press photographers were lined up at the entrance, kept at bay by a red rope and a bunch of liveried security men. A warm murmur and low whistles greeted her arrival, at the sight of the tight plunge of dark-green around her warm skin and glorious curves, the pearls which gleamed at her waist and again looped around her neck. Diana had borrowed Claire’s family heirloom, the Bryant necklace, a string of pearls the size of small marbles, with a marquise-cut emerald set in the center. Against the snow, she was a burst of color, green in the middle of winter. Her dark brows were shaped just a little, her full lips a daring red-plum shade, nothing but a whisper of gloss blush on her sharp cheekbones and a light-brown shadow to bring out the sky-blue of her eyes.
The paparazzi were all men and didn’t catalog this. They just saw Diana Verity, the wife in the Foxton rumors, looking good enough to eat, like a Christmas present. Flashbulbs popped like firecrackers as she swept past, ignoring them, into the main hall.
Diana glanced around her at the rich guests. Among the uniform black tie of the men she saw faces she recognized: Rudolph Guiliani, the famous former mayor, Bobby de Niro and his gorgeous black girlfriend, Barry Diller, Ted Turner, apparently flown in from Atlanta … but this was publishing’s night. Super-agents and the CEOs of the large book houses were all here with their wives, usually thin, blond girls with bodies like Tina Armis, groomed to perfection and wearing black with diamonds dripping from their lobes.
She was a director, sure. But her company was small, fighting for survival. These were movers and shakers, and at least one of them was out to destroy her.
She gave her name to a receptionist.
“Diana Verity … Imperial…” The girl scanned her seating chart. “With Michael Cicero, president … ah, yes … table twelve. Mr. Cicero has already arrived.”
“Yes, he has.” Diana stood upright and turned around. Michael was standing behind her in a dark dinner jacket and plain white shirt. It looked as though it had been pressed just minutes ago. The tux picked out his brown eyes and thick, dark lashes and set off his black hair.
“You shouldn’t bend over like that. It’s too much shape for these old men to handle,” Michael said softly in her ear. “You could be arrested for giving them heart attacks.”
Diana blushed. “Come off it, Michael, OK? Look at the women in here. All New York men want is a size-zero teenager in beige Calvin Klein.”
“Don’t you believe it. Men like tits and ass. Always have, always will.”
“Do you have to be so vulgar?” Diana hissed.
He shrugged unrepentantly. “You asked, babe, I told you.”
“I didn’t ask you anything.”
Michael looked down at her. Diana felt his eyes trailing across the plunge of her dress, fixing on her bottom, then running around her small waist and stopping right in the middle of her groin. To her dismay she felt a point of heat burning in between her legs. Her pussy tightened in a way she hadn’t felt since …
She stopped herself and drew a deep breath. Come on, Diana. You tried it with him and it didn’t work out. Anyway, he’s seeing that blond, skinny bimbette. You and he are like fire and petrol. Put you together and it’s just too much.
“We’re not here to fight,” Michael said. “Let’s try to suspend hostilities just for once. We’re here to announce ourselves.”
“Agreed. We’re on table twelve.” Diana recovered her poise. She wasn’t going to allow Michael to disturb her. She couldn’t afford that. She was dating Brad and in partnership with Michael, working for him, hadn’t she already decided that she needed to keep him at arm’s length?
“Then let’s go.” Michael offered her his arm, and she laid her fingers gently on his sleeve, as though contact with him might burn her.
The ballroom was packed. Everywhere you looked, moguls swept their wives toward tables around which a throng of waiters were hovering. Of all Manhattan’s charity evenings, this was one of the least showy and the most prestigious. There were no big-name rock stars, no themed decor here tonight. Rather, there were speeches on literacy from leading educationalists and a short toast by the governor. Tonight was erudite, witty, about books and reading. And the competition for tickets was vast.
Diana moved under a chandelier and accepted a Bellini. She enjoyed fresh peach juice and champagne and she could sip it while trying to get her bearings. Many of the faces here she knew from her dinners as Mrs. Foxton.
“Diana, have you met Richard Freer?” Michael said, introducing her to a tall man with a ramrod-straight back and a shock of white hair. “I worked with Richard when I was running Green Eggs. He’s a buyer for Barnes and Noble.”
“Nice to meet you.” Diana shook hands firmly and smiled up at the man. “I hope Michael has been telling you about our games. We could supply to your net operation.”
And they were off. Michael swam through the room like a feeding shark, greeting women and men, introducing Diana, while she gave them the pitch. She noticed the heads put discreetly together after they had passed, the way chatter rose up after Michael had moved through. And the reaction, she was relieved to note, was positive.
“I love selling your games,” the buyer at Amazon told them. “Parents write us thank-you notes. And that’s rare.”
“Michael has such a touch with what kids want,” Greg Bear from Waldenbooks said. “I’m sure he’s taught you a great deal. I have a six-year-old who went up two letter-grades after a month on the Gecko Math game.”
To her surprise, Diana found she was really starting to enjoy herself. Socializing came easily to her, and the executives here were mostly aware of Imperial. Michael was a known quantity and they seemed willing to accept her without question because they knew him.
By the time the announcement for dinner was made, the room was buzzing. A new company was on the scene. Everyone knew that Michael Cicero, still in his thirties, the guy who kept bouncing back like a rubber ball, was a force to be reckoned with. Diana Verity actually looked like more than window dressing. This time last year she was just a trophy wife, they told themselves. But this was New York, where stranger things had happened.
Exhilarated, Michael shepherded Diana over to their table. It gave him the opportunity to rest his hand on the small of her back. He could feel her spine through the soft velvet and rest his thumb just on the curve of her incredible ass. How he missed that firm, curvy butt. The temptation to reach his hands down and just stroke and knead her skin w
as intense. But he managed not to do it. She was dating Bradley the Billionaire, Michael reminded himself sarcastically. After the divorce Diana had rebounded real fast. Brad would be a big step up for her. Mansions, townhouses, private jets, everybody knew about the Bailey fortune.
I’ll never have enough money to satisfy a girl like her, Michael thought. And women who liked men with money were anathema to him. Diana did her job well. That was all he should care about.
If he could just stop thinking about her.
Their table was a good one, just two back from the center of the room. Michael grinned. All that string pulling had definitely paid off. He could see the floor, see if there was anybody else he should be talking to. And the industry could see him. Thanks to Diana, virtually the only lady present wearing any kind of color, they stood out as though she was wearing a billboard.
“Michael, look,” Diana said, suddenly stopping him dead.
She pointed.
He saw.
Two of the other six people at their table were Felicity Metson and Ernie Foxton.
Michael squeezed Diana’s hand. As far as business went, they had no reservations about each other.
“Ready to show them what we’re made of?”
“Absolutely,” Diana said, winking back at him.
Arm in arm, they walked over to the table—well, Michael walked, but the only word for what Diana was doing, he thought, was sashaying. Man, he wanted to grab her by that tiny waist and pull up those green folds and slide his hand in between her creamy thighs and start palming that silky little pussy until he melted her ice-core, had her begging him to fuck her like she used to … With difficulty, he lifted his eyes from her rear undulating just beside him and fixed them on his enemy. The men automatically stood as another lady approached the table. Michael noticed how Ernie’s eyes half bugged out of his head.
They shook hands and slipped into their seats. Michael examined Felicity Metson. Her hair was worn up in an ornate French bun which glittered with some kind of wiring. Her hairdresser had done it tightly enough to stretch the skin on her face. She was bony and the hair made her look angular. He noticed that she was wearing a short black sheath, a plain dress designed to make her look even skinnier. A set of bloodred talons rested on the table and she wore a thin diamond necklace. She was made-up with great care; heavy mascara, two thin red lines of blush on her cheeks, and a cat’s moue of a mouth in fire-engine scarlet.
Damn, Michael thought. Ernie Foxton had to be insane. He married the girl with the best body in England and then swapped her for a richer version of trailer-park trash.
“I’m Michael Cicero,” he said, offering Felicity his hand. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“I don’t, either.” Felicity looked him over haughtily. “I only mix in society circles and publishing, of course.”
He smiled at the rebuke, watching Ernie greet Diana frostily. Whoever had drawn up this seating plan had a sense of humor, that was for sure.
“Then perhaps you’ll be seeing a bit more of me. Our games sell to booksellers, too.”
Ernie turned on him without preamble. What a thin little weasel the guy is, Michael thought. What a goddamn pity we live in a sue-happy society. I would just love to take him outside and kick his fucking ass.
“I don’t think so.” Ernie addressed the other guests at their table: a books editor for Time magazine and his wife, who were relaxing in their chairs, preparing to enjoy the fireworks. “Michael used to be a junior executive working for Blakely’s. We didn’t see eye to eye so I had to let him go.”
Michael felt Diana tense beside him and gently put one hand on her thigh to stop her from blasting off at Ernie. People knew what the score was with Green Eggs. He silently willed her to understand. Let the idiot dig his own hole.
“Michael runs a small games company. I think it was going to float at one time, huh, Michael?”
Cicero nodded. “That’s true.”
“But then it didn’t happen. Funnily enough, Blakely’s new software division rolled out its own line.” Ernie said, grinning.
Felicity gazed over at them triumphantly.
“Yes. No hard feelings,” she purred. “Actually I think it’s just wonderful to see the small businessmen and their staff”—here she shot a look at Diana—“at industry events.”
“I hope you’re not thinking of going back into publishing.” Ernie slipped an arm ostentatiously around Felicity as he said this. He was ruffled by how classy Diana had managed to look. Felicity was starting to annoy him with her endless shopping and jewelry buying. His fucking useless staff weren’t coming up with the sales and the board was starting to ask him pointed questions. But what the fuck. He was still a giant compared to this jock sitting in front of him. “There’s a non-compete clause in your contract. Or have you forgotten? I can have my lawyers give you a call, if you like.”
Diana held her breath. Ernie was going to go after them with all guns blazing.
“I assure you I have forgotten nothing,” Michael said, with a precision that made Diana shudder. “Not the fact that you lied to me and stole my company from me and cheated me out of a million dollars. Nor the fact that you started a games company and poached my people at a cost that cannot possibly have been profitable for you—”
“Hey. Business is business.”
Michael ignored him and continued, quite calmly, “And certainly not the clause that forbade me from going into publishing for a year. But that’s not too much of a problem for Imperial. Because I don’t want anything to do with the books anymore. Imperial Games is surviving, and we’re going to thrive. With the help of Diana Verity, your ex-wife, and our director.”
Diana smiled at Ernie and watched the emotions cross his face; stupefaction, rage, apprehension … she watched Felicity freeze in her seat as though somebody had dropped an ice cube down her neck.
“I didn’t know your company was so small,” Keith Fanning, the Time journalist, said curiously.
“Oh, we’re not.” Diana turned the full wattage of her smile at him. “Actually, with the way our second range has been selling, especially our e-business, we’re the leading educational games software provider in the city. In fact, we’re the largest private company of our kind in the northeast.”
“You can’t grow much more, though,” Felicity blurted, unable to contain herself. “Ernie told me you needed more money for expansion.”
“Oh, he did?” Michael grinned at Ernie as his woman exposed his weakness. “In fact we are considering a new IPO in a year or so. It seems as though Blakely’s games division isn’t actually selling that well. I’ve got no idea why. You guys have good talent over there. It used to be ours.”
Ernie scowled. “Our division is doing just fine.” He gave a crocodile smile to the powerful journalist. “I wouldn’t believe everything you hear from the competition.”
“Sound advice,” Diana said sweetly. “I’d say, if you’re interested, you should check with the retailers and net suppliers. They should be able to give you some accurate numbers.”
Felicity looked with dismay at Ernie.
“But really, enough business.” Michael lifted the wine bottle. “Would anybody like a little Merlot?”
*
Michael was amazing, Diana thought.
He led her onto the dance floor after dinner, his arm around her waist and, to her amazement, started to do an expert tango with her. Her skin blazed when he dipped her in his arms, her weight as nothing. My God, she thought, he’s so strong. His muscles were like steel knots compared to Brad’s. She felt the slow, betraying pulse of blood fill her nipples. Thank heavens the velvet was thick. She tried not to look into his eyes as he spun her around. He had made mincemeat of Ernie, just cut him up into little shreds and left him there quivering. When Michael had extended his hand to Diana and asked her to dance, Ernie and Felicity had been quarreling publicly.
“You took me out here to talk business?” Diana whispered.
Michael shook his head. “Just to dance. If that’s OK by you.”
Diana felt her breath coming a bit raggedly. She was burning up for him. Was there any chance, she wondered, that he still wanted her? That he could actually fall for her?
“Diana,” a voice said.
Michael pulled her upright and close to his chest, close enough to feel those full breasts press against his shirt, then let her go. He felt a wave of anger rock him, but held himself in check. Brad Bailey, in the flesh. He noted the diamond pinkie ring, the very expensive shoes. Bailey was tall, tanned and it looked like he actually bleached his teeth.
“Brad, this is Michael Cicero, my boss.” Diana looked flushed. Michael wondered why she would react to this vanilla pudding that way. “My escort tonight. I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I wasn’t, but you told me you’d be here, so I picked up a table at the last minute,” Brad said. He turned to Michael. “Cicero, wasn’t it? Nice to meet you. I’ll be taking Diana home now. Thanks for looking after her.”
“We were in the middle of a dance,” Michael said.
Brad shrugged and he caught a whiff of aftershave. “Diana doesn’t really enjoy dancing. She prefers quiet dinners.”
Diana started to open her mouth and Michael snapped. He really wasn’t interested in hearing her back up Mr. Moneybags.
“I know what you mean. I got to go myself,” he said. “My girl needs to get intimate a couple of times a night. Most of them do. I don’t want to keep her waiting.”
“I … see,” Brad said, discomfited.
Diana flushed. “Could you take me home, please, Brad?”
She held out her hand and walked away from Michael without another word.
THIRTY-SEVEN
My girl needs to get intimate a couple of times a night. Why not just say you’re going home to fuck her? I hate him, I hate him, Diana thought, the way he tricks you into feeling something for him and then instantly hits you with that attitude to women. I hate to keep her waiting. Was that the way he’d talked to his buddies about her when they were dating? She prickled with embarrassment. She still wanted Michael a couple of times a night and a couple of times each day, too. All he’d had to do was to walk into her office and cup his hands over the globes of her ass, sometimes less than that, sometimes just shoot a look at her pussy, for Diana to feel primed for him, hot, almost panting.
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