by Cat Kelly
"Yes. I know how he is too." Marianne smiled stiffly back, stepped in and let the doors close.
Jack Marchetti had evidently chosen a decorator from his own staff roster in the expectation of getting a renovation done on the cheap, or free, despite the fact that he was one of the ten richest men under fifty in New York City. Yes, she'd read the Forbes list. And rolled her eyes at it.
Money? He could keep it.
She chuckled at herself. Of course she could say that because she didn't have any. It was easy to disdain something one never had.
Marianne remembered the bitter fights over her grandfather's money when he died. In the end Uncle Stan got the lion's share, because of a last minute addendum to the will, which shut Marianne's father almost completely out of it. Dear Uncle Stan promptly blew it all in Vegas. Marianne's mother had cried with her head on the kitchen table for two solid hours when she heard he'd left Aunt Maureen and dashed off to sin city with a first class ticket in one hand and a nineteen-year-old barmaid in the other.
If Marianne's father had known about the long affair between his wife and his brother he showed no sign of it. He didn't seem to care about his wife, or the money, or anything other than books. And of course, his daughter. But only, she suspected, because she was very much like him—socially awkward, an introvert whose reserved nature often came across to others as a superiority complex.
"The only important thing in life," he used to say, "is an education. It's one thing that can't be lost or spent or taken away from you."
Because she knew about her mother's infidelities—and yes, Uncle Stan wasn't the only one—Marianne often felt as if she was her father's only companion. The only one he could trust. Consequently she spent a lot of her evenings at home with him, his books and his board games. She wouldn't have left his side to go away to college so early, if he hadn't suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack during a game of backgammon.
He left her just enough money to complete her education and get out of dodge. She wasn't sure her father would approve of a career in interior design. It was more likely he would have wanted her to follow his footsteps into the world of academia, but there was the creative side she inherited from her mother and it wouldn't be crushed out of her. Always anxious to please her father—the parent who most valued her presence—she'd tried hard not to be lured by art, but it was all around her, hovering in the air to seep into her skin. Just like her mother's cigarette smoke.
"Great," her mother had shouted, lighting up another cigarette within seconds of grinding out the last one, "go away, just like your brothers, and leave me here to manage this drafty old farmhouse on my own."
Just before she closed the front door and left home for the last time, Marianne had suggested, "Ask Uncle Stan to move in and help out. He's handy in the woodshed, isn't he?"
She'd left her mother with a white face and a wide-open mouth. That's what it feels like to be betrayed, Veronica dear, she thought.
People should never marry without love, plain and simple. Her parents, she knew, had married because her mother was pregnant. See what one little mistake, one moment of lust, can do? How much unhappiness it can cause?
The elevator to Jack Marchetti's apartment stopped slowly and smoothly. The doors opened with a self-satisfied whoosh and her first view was of a large billiard table, slap bang in the middle of the dark, hard wood floor. The far wall was dominated by a huge, flat-screen TV and before it lurked two ugly leather lazy-boy recliners - complete with cup holders. A worn brown velvet sofa, that looked as if it might once have claimed pride of place in an elderly relative's house, sat along the exposed brick wall with a stack of magazines beside it, topped off with an old, wind-up alarm clock. Was that a modern art exhibit, or just some trash waiting to go out? Her astonished gaze swept further into the apartment and found a giant, inflatable gorilla; a tall, dead plant; a line of pub mirrors set against the wall; a gumball machine and a corner dinette set with torn plastic seating. Bright orange. By the time she reached his bedroom on the upper floor she was surprised not to find a stripper pole.
There was only one term to describe his decorating style. Frat House.
This was the home of a man who planned never to grow up. Pretty sad at his age. Worse even than that, it was clear everything to him was temporary. The only item fixed to the wall was his TV. Pictures and mirrors merely lounged against walls. Second hand and cheap flat-pack furniture was the order of the day, as if anything more solid was an investment he didn't see any point in making. His "closet" was an open wrack on wheels in the bedroom. There was a black suitcase laid open on his bed with a few toiletries scattered inside, as if he'd been looking for something in it only that morning. Apparently he was a man who never fully unpacked.
The apartment was pretty much a clean slate, which was a good thing for her. But it was also an overwhelming space, especially for her first solo project. Then there was the thought of working closely with that man as her client, on a project that would put her even more firmly in his sights, when she'd basically told Mrs. Bracknell that she meant to keep her head down and hide.
He was right about the bones of the place though. They didn't need to be messed around with, fortunately considering the time constraints —just his lousy decor.
The view, of course, was stunning. A bank of floor to ceiling windows faced out over the churning cityscape. At night the lights must be beautiful, she thought. But somehow she doubted Jack Marchetti ever spent much time appreciating the view, whatever city he was in. Beauty like that was wasted on a man like him because he saw it every day, wherever he went. The outdoor terraces had no furniture and the doors leading out to them were locked.
She thought suddenly of his eyes. They were an odd color—a blue that could be almost black at times and in some lights. Like a summer's dusk, velvety and warm, quivering on the verge of transformation to night. There was something sad about his eyes, she realized. Something that added another layer of mystery.
Jack Marchetti was very different to the harsh, mean-tempered boss she'd been warned to expect. But he did act like a man accustomed to getting his own way.
One empty glass, sticky with the remnants of whiskey, sat on the low cabinet beside the bed and with it a chessboard. The cabinet drawer was slightly ajar. Even as she told herself not to pry, her fingers reached for the slender metal handle and tugged. The drawer opened smoothly. A few books lay there with a travel packet of tissues, a few throat lozenges—and a pink ribbon.
Marianne stared. It looked like the ribbon with which her wrists had been bound at The Club. Surely he hadn't brought it home with him. Why would he?
To assure herself that it was some other random ribbon coincidently lying in his bedside drawer, she took it out and let it dangle from her fingers. It was about the right length. Pulse racing, she lifted the ribbon to her nose and breathed in. Yep, there was her perfume.
She dropped it back in the drawer as if it scalded her fingers.
He'd kept a souvenir of their evening.
Sitting heavily on the edge of his bed, she spent several minutes studying the chess pieces on the board, calming her thoughts by immersing them in the game of strategy that she loved. Finally Marianne moved the white queen. She hadn't played chess for several years—since her father died in fact—but old habits die hard.
Suddenly she was restless. Getting off the bed, she walked to the windows and looked out at the view. She could turn down the job of redecorating the apartment rather than put herself in his way again, or she could shut her mouth and take the fee. Maybe she'd been too hasty, turning her nose up at his money. Why shouldn't she have some, if he was throwing it around? Better he gave it to her than to someone like sweaty Bob Rawlings, who would take the money and the credit but make someone else do the work. Certainly she needed the money to bolster her sagging bank account. Could use some new clothes too—a more fashionable wardrobe now she was in the city.
She searched in her bag for a stick of gum.
Suddenly her phone chirped with a text message.
"Claudia," it said.
It took her a moment, because her mind was on other things.
Another text quickly followed, flashing up on the small screen. "Tonight."
Marianne froze, staring at the phone. He must have gotten her number from personnel.
"Claudia"
The name stood out boldly, shouting at her.
She thought of him spanking her ass, licking her pussy, groaning hard as he came. The heat of his balls thrusting against her smoothly waxed vulva. His excitement had brought hers to another level.
Ouch! She'd chewed too hard and bitten her tongue.
With a stiff finger she pressed the "delete" button, casting him and those two little words into the ether. A booty call from her boss was just too weird.
But her pulse fluttered recklessly and she was suddenly very, very warm inside. She lifted his whiskey glass, looking for finger smudges. Yep. There they were. His big, firm, clever, limber fingers. Next she grabbed his bed pillow and sniffed it, feeling like a pervert.
Yep, his cologne.
She dropped it back to the bed. Behave yourself, Claudia.
Claudia?
Oh, no. Too late. Claudia, her alter ego, had just woken up.
Chapter Nine
The Brat
When he went home for a change of clothes, there was a handwritten estimate waiting for him in an envelope on the billiard table. He tore it open impatiently and scanned to the figures.
The brat had some gall. He wouldn't pay that sort of money for the best interior designer in New York, and she was only just starting out. He was supposed to be giving her a chance. Who the hell did she think she was? Possibly this was her way of getting out of it, he thought. She'd expected him to change his mind about hiring her to decorate his apartment if she charged this much.
He fell back into his recliner and realized, morosely, that he'd let her invade his life already. All weekend he'd thought about Marianne Miller. He'd lost three games of squash on Saturday because of her. And Jack didn't like to lose.
Who was she? A twenty-three year-old girl, that's what. Mrs. B was probably right and she was too young for him. Shit, he was sixteen when she was born. Was he making the classic mistake and trying to relive his youth through the lovely and difficult Ms. Miller? She did, in fact, make him feel like a boy again, all tense and excitable.
She hadn't answered his text message, damn her.
If she thought she was in control of this game, she was about to be surprised. Really, she shouldn't bother playing hard to get because nothing was hard for Jack Marchetti to "get". Didn't she know that? Everything had its price.
He took out his phone and checked it again. Aha! A message. But it wasn't from his new, about-to-be-hired-despite-her-extortionate-estimate decorator. It was from the member services director at The Club.
"Claudia" had just rewarded her "Sir" his tokens from last Thursday night. Fifty.
Fifty? He stared. Fifty? That was all she gave him for his performance. He growled out loud, "Are you fucking kidding me, brat?"
Yeah, she made him feel sixteen again, insecure, stupid and horny.
He took the spiral stairs up to his second floor and flung his suit jacket across the bed. Almost immediately he noticed she'd straightened the area rug by his bed. Properly straightened it. He usually just moved it with his foot because it kept sliding about on the hardwood. He'd never got around to buying a rug grip. Then he saw the chessboard. Shirt half-unbuttoned, he sank to the bed and stared at the game pieces. She'd moved the white queen, trying to box him in. Very clever.
But not quite clever enough. With a smirk, he moved the black bishop in a diagonal across the board and claimed her queen.
His phone buzzed again. This time it was Alana reminding him to pick her up at seven. He'd forgotten about dinner.
"I'm so sorry, Alana. I can't tonight," he replied. "Something came up. Unexpected."
"You're cancelling?"
"I have to." Again he apologized. "It's work. I can't get out of it. I wish I could." Eventually he agreed to meet her on another night, just to cut the conversation short.
"All work and no play...,” she warned, sing song.
She needn't worry, he mused. He had every intention of playing tonight. Playing hard.
* * * *
With Sean Paul's "Touch the Sky" booming in her iPod earbuds, she knocked back a glass of wine and perused the new items laid out on her bed. All these things were brave new territory for Marianne the tomboy - slinky, black cocktail dress with asymmetrical neckline from Tadashi Shoji and red suede, peep toe pumps from Gucci. Damn shoes alone set her back almost seven hundred dollars and they were outlet. Whaaat, girrrl? She tried not to keep looking at the receipt. She'd begun to remind herself too much of Veronica Shelton, the unmotherly mother and unfaithful wife, who relied heavily on retail therapy and random sexcapades to get her through a dissatisfying life.
Another glass of wine, she decided, would help tremendously. She'd actually spilled most of the first glass down her bathrobe while bouncing about to the music.
She had no idea what had gotten into her today. Blame it on the text to "Claudia". Somehow, the appearance of that name brought out her hidden demon and let it play. Claudia was Marianne's wicked twin it seemed. All these years she'd been hiding and now, suddenly, she was out of her cage.
Chuckling, she imagined his face when he found out that she'd only awarded him fifty tokens. That would, no doubt, be a first for Mr. Woody. He was so full of himself he might implode. She set the wine bottle back in the refrigerator, closed the door and leaned her back against it for a moment. Jack Marchetti was a very strange man, she concluded. And that, coming from her, was quite an accolade. She'd like to study him really, like any other subject that caught her fancy. Get to the bottom of it, know what made it tick. Maybe that was why she was going back to The Club. It couldn't possibly be because he'd asked her to —or told her to. Could it? Nah.
Trouble was, people weren't like textbooks. People answered back and sometimes did unexpected things that you couldn't read ahead to see coming. If she wanted to get inside someone, they might want to get inside her at the same time.
Taking her wine glass back to the bed, she sat among her tissue paper, bags and boxes, and surveyed once again the wreckage of a shopping trip she couldn't afford. Her usually tidy room looked as if a department store had exploded in it. Make that three fancy department stores.
He'd better hire her as his decorator or else she'd just dug herself into credit card debt. Remarkably careless of her. Claudia's fault, obviously. All this giddiness could be blamed on her wild alter ego.
She patted the Tadashi dress. "You have to wait for the Holiday party, my darling."
Tonight, Claudia had other business. She opened one of the boxes and took out a beautiful leather and vintage lace corset from La Petite Coquette. And a panty harness.
* * * *
Jack walked in to the room and felt that reawakened spark of anticipation again as he waited for the young woman who'd tried to turn his head inside out.
When the line of auction lots entered he knew her immediately and the angry flame of doubt was snuffed. She came. And she came to play.
It had better be with him.
Since she was no longer a novice she wore her hair up tonight and black lingerie. Her incredible legs, encased in black thigh-highs, seemed even longer than he remembered and sent a quicksilver pulse to the organ between his own legs. A leather corset drew her waist in and accentuated the fullness of her hips and her breasts where they popped out above the ruffle of lace, two rosy nipples proudly displayed. Around her neck she wore a wide band of lace, from which a slender line of pearls led down into her cleavage, then disappeared under her corset, to pop put again holding the black silk strap that passed for panties, barely covering her pussy lips. Dressed to kill came to mind.
Two other men quickly closed in on her
and Jack calmed his anxiety with a pep talk. No one would outbid him. He wanted her; he'd have her.
"Claudia's" wrists were not bound behind her back tonight. They were tied with pink ribbon that wrapped around each thigh, keeping her hands at her sides. Her fingers, he noted, were still clenched, as they had been on her first night. But she was daring enough for another spin of the roulette wheel.
Strolling up behind her, he cupped her right ass cheek.
"Gentlemen, this prize is mine."
She turned her head slightly but did not look at him.
He whispered in her ear below the bindings of her silk mask. "Isn't that right, Claudia? You belong to Sir." He knew, of course that she was not permitted to speak and this time she obeyed The Club rules.
"We'll see about that," one of the other men laughed jovially, rubbing a hand over the slender silk strap that covered her sex.
Before the other man could slide his finger under the silk, Jack tugged on the pearl harness, pulling it tighter against her pussy. "Yes," he said, low, "we'll see."
Another bidder settled his hands on her cinched waist while he studied her lips and then he fondled her breasts, squeezing her nipples. "I'd like to give this one a good ride."
Jack felt his anger mounting again and kept hold of her panty harness. Maybe he was getting too old for this. As he looked over her shoulder and saw her nipples peaking for another man's fingers, he began to sweat. He moved his free hand to her hip and then her arm and finally her breast, pushing the other bidder away.
His hardened cock throbbed against the front of his pants and her ass. "Feel that, Claudia? That's what you're doing to me. That's what you've been doing to me since last Thursday."