Forty minutes later, she was ready.
“You have beautiful hair,” he murmured, as he stood behind her and coaxed the large waves he’d created to fall perfectly over her shoulders. “It can’t decide if it wants to be wheat or caramel, but it’s so luscious you just need to touch it. Which means I’ve done my job. Again.” He gave her a satisfied smirk in the mirror, and she couldn’t deny it.
He’d done a simple yet elegant application of makeup, but her hair had a sultry old-school Hollywood vibe.
“What did you say the client wanted? To talk about brain surgery or something?”
“Something,” she agreed, turning her head left and right to absorb the amazing effect he’d achieved.
“Well, he will be hard pressed to keep up the conversation; that’s all I can say. I’m off!” he almost shouted, giving her hair one last smoothing and grabbing his toolbox. “Your neighbor has some urgent manscaping I need to attend to.”
“Really?” she said, looking at him in surprise. “For Elliot?”
“I’ve said too much already,” he said and left the room.
She shrugged and stood up, facing the mirror, and then turned to get the full view from behind.
“Wow,” she said. If she wasn’t so short, even in heels, she’d think she could be a model.
She put lip gloss, a few band-aids for her feet, and some tissue in her small purse and wrapped the plum wool around her. It took a little tweaking, but eventually she had it draped nicely.
As she stepped into her hallway, her phone buzzed in her hand to let her know the Cavendish car had arrived.
* * *
Anya admitted there were one or two butterflies in her stomach as the car drove to the estates for her engagement. But they didn’t flutter and multiply until the car pulled up to the Baja House.
This is where I first saw Dimi.
She frowned and tried to force him from her mind. Thinking about him wouldn’t help right now.
Instead, she focused on the book she’d read and the essay she thought would be most conversational—whether a brain in a jar could retain any sense of human identity. And on getting out of the car without tripping on the long hem of her gown.
The driver halted the car at the entrance and walked around to let her out. She held her skirt and got out carefully. Success. Out of everything, that was still the moment she dreaded most.
She breathed in deeply and let her most confident persona fall in place—exam face. It had always served her well.
As she approached the large double doors, they opened automatically, two men in khaki shirts and pants holding them for her and facing each other. Directly ahead was a large mosaic water fountain easily twice as tall as she was.
She tried to keep her expression neutral, but it was difficult. High above it looked like sunny clear skies, likely more of those magical panels that were in the manor. The surroundings looked exactly like she was in an outdoor courtyard in South America.
“Right this way, Miss Saigo,” said a woman who stood in front of her near the fountain. She hadn’t even seen her. She wore a khaki shirt and matching skirt and smiled as she extended her hand to Anya’s left.
The floor was shiny terracotta tiles that led to three rooms. Two had closed doors, but the middle one was open, the twelve-foot-high doors swung wide.
She walked into a garden, the floor giving way to a mosaic path of blue and white, winding through a grove of trees. As it curved, she crossed a bridge to a dinner setting under a pergola. The wood structure was covered in vines and greenery.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” a deep British voice asked, and she looked to her right to see a tall man in a three-piece suit. His smile flashed against his dark skin, and he held out a hand but didn’t move.
She continued over to him, releasing her skirt to put her hand in his. She smiled as he lifted it to press a kiss on the back of her hand.
His dark hair was silver at the temples, and his hands were long and smooth. He was lean and stood with his shoulders back, as if he’d had strict parents constantly reminding him about his posture.
“I’ve yet to not be amazed by anything here,” she admitted.
“I’m the opposite.” He gestured to the small table for two and slid his other hand under her wrap to her bare back to urge her toward it. “Cavendish was starting to run out of amazements for me until I read your profile. Medical school,” he said, helping her remove her wrap and taking her purse.
He walked to the chair adjacent to hers, and she had to school herself not to look at where her purse and wrap had gone, since his hands were empty.
“Yes.”
“It’s not often Cavendish attracts such beautiful graduate students.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said with a small shrug.
“What area of practice are you interested in?”
“I hate to disappoint you, but not neurology.”
He inclined his head and shrugged. “It’s not for everybody. What’s for you?”
“Oncology, I think. Eventually.”
“Ah,” he said, and his smug smile annoyed her. “Had a family member die, I take it? Not unusual. But once you’re in third year, you’ll probably change your mind.”
“Why is that?” She sat, her back stiffening even more.
“First years think they know exactly what they want. Second years realize they don’t know anything and panic. By the third year, some doctor will take you under his wing, and that’s what you’ll specialize in.”
“Well, thanks for filling me in,” she said. She heard the snap in her words and tried to get her annoyance under control. “So… Broca’s Brain.” She tried to get him onto the topic he wanted to talk about so she wouldn’t say something she regretted.
“Not so fast, my dear Saigo. And I haven’t even begun to fill you in.” He gave her a look she was sure he thought melted hearts everywhere. “I’m doing this all out of order!” he exclaimed, leaning forward. “I’m Broca, and I must say you look incredible.”
“I’m Saigo, and thank you,” she said, not trusting his attempt at a do-over on their initial meeting. In her experience, rich doctors never admitted anything without a motive.
He shuffled his chair a little closer to hers and tapped the table. A server in formal attire appeared at his side instantly.
“Champagne?” Broca asked.
“I don’t drink. Soda water would be lovely.”
“As the lady requests,” he said smoothly to the waiter. “And another gin for me.”
When the server left, he settled back into his chair and let his eyes roam over her. She tried to pretend they were just meeting, to see if she could conjure up any kind of desire. He was a very good-looking man, after all.
“What did you think of Broca’s Brain?” he asked.
It took a few minutes, but eventually she eased into a fascinating discussion of language and aphasia and several intricacies of neurology she hadn’t thought about. Before she knew it, she was finishing the last of the grilled asparagus spears on her plate.
“You have a delightful mind.” He laughed and leaned back as the server cleared their plates. “Let’s see how your legs are.” He stood and held out his hand, the butterflies from earlier coming back.
She put her hand in his and stood, about to ask what he meant, when the lights dimmed and soft music floated into the room.
Twinkling lights appeared around a small tiled area, and Broca led her over to it.
“I’m not much of a dancer,” he said, placing her hand on his shoulder and then sliding his hand down her arm to her bare back. His other hand took hers and pressed it against his lapel. “I’m more of a shuffler.” He laughed.
She laughed as well. “The same for me,” she admitted.
He pressed her against him, and she could feel his erection through the thin material of her dress.
“You’re exhilarating,” he murmured. He was slightly taller than her in her heels, only having to dip hi
s chin down to have his lips touch the top of her ear.
She didn’t know what to say so merely murmured, “Hm.”
He chuckled and slipped his hand down her back and over the low waist of her dress. He stopped at her ass, kneading it slowly.
“I made you angry at the start of the night, didn’t I? You don’t like it when people assume to know your thoughts.”
“I was… annoyed,” she admitted. He wore a heavy cologne. That must be what was giving her a mild headache.
“I liked that. The thought of making you angry again is very stimulating.” He emphasized his words by grinding his hips against hers.
She didn’t know what to say so stayed quiet. But then he gripped her ass hard, his fingers digging in.
“Did I give you the impression that I really care what medicine you want to practice? That I care whether your dear father or saintly mother died of cancer, and so you want to save the world?”
She suddenly understood what was happening, and it let her find the role he wanted her to play. And she played it for all she could.
“Shut up,” she gritted, making herself go stiff in his arms. It was risky, but if he was as jaded about Cavendish as he admitted, she bet nobody ever spoke to him like that.
He inhaled sharply and moved to squeeze her ass with both hands then thrust himself against her. His cock strained against her, and she just acted on instinct.
“Don’t,” she said, putting her hands on his chest to lightly push. “I can’t respect anyone who would align themselves with a eugenist like Broca,” she said with a sneer.
His cheeks flamed but his pupils dilated.
His hands moved down her ass and into the convenient slit of the dress, lifting her legs to straddle him as he carried her to a lounge. He dropped her feet to the ground and spun her, lowering her down on the leather.
He handled her roughly but carefully, which calmed her racing heartbeat. This is it. Can I do this?
One hand bent her leg, exposing her to him, and then both hands reached in front to squeeze her breasts. She heard the rasp of his zipper and the sound of him rolling on a condom. Then he lowered himself on her.
“I disgust you, don’t I? Be honest,” he muttered, panting into her ear. He groped to find her wrists, sliding them under her and holding them there, his cock cradled between her legs but not penetrating.
Immediately, an image of Dimi popped into her brain. The way he looked in his suit when she’d first seen him, the sheer size of his body curled around her when she’d woken up beside him yesterday. She was instantly wet.
“You arrogant ass,” she muttered, turning her head to make sure he could see her disgust. He did.
“Oh… God,” Broca grunted, barely sliding his cock into her then grunting loudly, his voice dissolving into short yelps.
It only took a few breaths for him to calm his breathing, and he carefully lifted himself off her.
He quickly removed his condom and wiped off, deftly throwing everything into a discrete container out of sight.
He adjusted her dress and helped her stand, back to his distinguished, polite self.
“Saigo, I have thoroughly enjoyed myself tonight,” he said, taking her hand for a kiss and leading her back to the table. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I have to step away.”
He sat her back in her chair and walked out the way she’d come in. After a few minutes, a server appeared with a card.
S,
You were pure bliss. Enjoy dessert and perhaps we’ll meet again.
B
Just as she finished reading, the server placed a small chocolate torte in front of her, a delicate raspberry coulis curved around it in a swash.
“Would you like coffee?” the server asked, hovering beside her.
She looked around at the beautiful surroundings, the trickling sound of water floating to her that she hadn’t noticed earlier.
“Yes. I would,” she said. And found her own kind of bliss.
20
Dimi set his green shake on the table, the other women looking at him questioningly.
“Are you back in training?” Lorna asked from the coffee bar, tapping her customary Stevia packet into her coffee mug.
“Not exactly. I got away from my routine and I miss it.” He shrugged. Lorna and Merrill nodded. Kensley, who was conferencing from New York, raised her eyebrows.
“I should do that. I’ve been eating like shit lately, and I feel it.”
“I should cut back on coffee, but then I think… why?” Lorna laughed.
Yuki looked at him steadily, neither commenting nor acknowledging him. He stared back until she looked down at the agenda in front of her. If she suspected anything, let her say it out loud.
“Let’s get this going before I eat a third muffin,” Kensley complained.
“Our three new consultants are off and running. They all passed their evaluations with glowing reviews,” Lorna said, flipping through a stapled set of papers.
“And Saigo?” Yuki asked.
“Very, very positive,” she began, only to have Merrill interrupt.
“Very, very? More than very, but less than very-very-very?” she asked, leaning forward earnestly.
“Funny,” Lorna mocked. “Truly, your talents are wasted on all of us.”
Usually, he found their banter amusing. The four of them became friends before he joined them. Born into wealthy families, they were sent away to elite boarding schools where their paths crossed and had stayed crossed.
It was beyond his experience, living on the streets as he had, and he often felt an outsider at these meetings. To be honest, he felt separate from everybody—the men he’d hired, the clients they served, and usually the consultants they brought it.
And he was glad for that. It served the purpose of keeping him focused on his goals. But watching them joke with each other somehow reminded him of Anya. The… oneness he felt when he was with her. He was torn about whether that was a good thing or not. And that feeling of uncertainty was probably why he’d reverted to his training routine. Tried to regain his own focus.
“Stay on track, everyone,” Yuki said. “Makkeido is sending a team to the World Trade Summit in Seattle this fall, which is not just the highest apple falling from the tree; it’s falling into my hands.”
“You mean our hands,” he said, not looking up from where he made notes. “This is a Cavendish plan, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” she said, and he sensed her straightening in her chair.
“Of course this is for all of us,” Lorna said, and he looked up to see the other women nodding but not making eye contact.
“So is your plan changing, now that Makkeido will be so close?” Merrill asked.
“I’m still going to play on Saigo’s aboriginal heritage. I’ve already done some research on ceremonial clothing and had a few pieces made. We’re going to have an unveiling of sorts. A hidden treasure theme with a mock-bidding component. Makkeido is a collector, after all. He’ll want the one thing he’s never had, and the idea of buying it, owning it, will be irresistible to him.”
“‘Mock’ meaning the other attendees will be in on it?” Kensley asked.
“Of course,” Yuki replied, dismissing her with a hand wave.
Dimi made a few notes on his paper, his mind trying to keep their comments clinical. This was a job. He had a job to do, and Anya had a job to do. Correction, Saigo had a job to do.
“And the timing will tie in with the summit?” Lorna asked, ready to take notes. “Do we know for sure he’ll be there?”
“Not exactly. But I’m working on it,” Yuki said.
Lorna stopped writing, looking down at the pen in her hand, which she rolled in her fingers.
“That sounds pretty iffy,” Merrill said.
“I… might be able to help with that,” Lorna offered, although to Dimi’s ears it didn’t sound like she wanted to.
“How?” Kensley asked.
“Oliver is head cons
ultant for the forensic auditors for Makkeido.”
The other three women’s expressions fell into various stages of stunned, but Dimi frowned.
“Who’s Oliver?”
“My ex-husband,” she answered.
A weighted silence dropped over the room, and he knew better than to ask more about that.
“Will Makkeido be part of a national Japanese contingent or attending in a corporate capacity?” he asked, looking at Yuki. She shifted in her seat.
“Probably corporate. You’re still in touch with him?” She addressed the question to Lorna.
“I can be,” she said, resuming her note taking. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“Is that all there is?” he found himself asking. “In your plan for Saigo, that is. How does it play out?”
“Just the standard,” Yuki said, waving her hand dismissively. “We expose just enough of his sex trafficking to the Makkeido board through back channels, and then they fire him. I know the board. They already hate that he has children from different mothers.”
“What about the other four companies he chairs?” he persisted. He could feel Merrill look at him with interest, but he ignored her. “How much evidence will you need? How long will Saigo have to play this role?”
“Until it’s done,” Yuki said, leaning forward and glaring at him. “The other companies don’t matter. Makkeido is the company he created. He runs it and loves it. It’s always been his legacy. Bringing his legacy down is the only thing that matters.”
He looked down and wrote a few words, but he didn’t know if they were sentences or scrawls.
“Why do you care?” she asked, her eyes shifting from glaring to analyzing.
He gave himself a mental shake. I don’t care. It’s business. But in case he was wrong, he had one tactic to divert her.
“No need to get upset,” he said, accusing her of the very thing he was feeling. “If I need to arrange any protracted security, I need to know the extent of the plan.”
“I’m not upset,” she bit out, adjusting in her seat. “But if we can’t get positive feedback from Makkeido before July, I want Saigo moved to our Bangkok estate. Not in his back yard, but close enough.”
Disciplined Page 18