by Joy Fielding
“How can you do that?”
“Very carefully,” he said with a wink. “Sneak in a page here and a page there. Provide more background, more context, greater depth. Eventually—who knows?—we might even be able to insert a more serious-minded article into the mix.”
“That would be great. Actually, I have a whole bunch of ideas.”
“Such as?”
“Well, I’ve been hoping we could do something on this new hormone replacement therapy that the medical establishment is all excited about. Actually, it’s been around a long time, but suddenly it’s all the rage. I know it’s not something that will necessarily appeal to our younger readers but—”
“Can you make it sound sexy?” Peter interrupted.
“What?”
“Sexy. Like your shoes.” He winked again.
Susan felt her cheeks burn bright red. Good thing she hadn’t worn her purple sweater, she thought. She’d clash terribly. “I guess we could give it a sexy kind of title,” she stammered, trying to concentrate on her idea. “Something like ‘HRT—the New Fountain of Youth?’ ”
Peter tilted his head, as if trying to picture the headline in his mind. “I think you might be onto something.”
“You do?”
“Absolutely.” Peter Bassett pushed himself to his feet, walked around the table to where Susan was sitting, and sat down in the chair beside her. His knees brushed lazily against hers, though he didn’t seem to notice.
Susan felt a shock similar to the one she’d experienced earlier that morning when she’d slammed her fingers in the drawer, except this time it was the insides of her thighs that were tingling.
“Why don’t you try writing it yourself?” he said.
“What?”
“It’s your idea. Why don’t you run with it?”
“Really?”
“I’m not promising anything, of course.”
“Of course.” She tried standing up, but he was sitting so close to her, she had nowhere to go. “I’ll get right on it.”
“What’s your hurry?”
She laughed, a silly schoolgirl laugh, she thought, hating the sound.
“Did I say something funny?” he asked.
Susan shook her head as he leaned in closer. My God, was he going to kiss her?
“You have something under your eye,” he told her, wetting his finger with his tongue. “Hold still.” He leaned forward until their lips were only inches apart. His left hand reached up to steady her chin, while the middle finger of his right left a moist trace of saliva beneath her left eye. She felt as if her skin were melting under his touch, as if the rest of her were about to dissolve into a puddle of hot lava. How long had it been since Owen’s touch had so electrified her? “There,” he said. “That’s better.”
Was he going to kiss her?
What would she do if he did?
He leaned back in his seat, smiled. My God, what was the matter with her? Of course he wasn’t going to kiss her. He was her boss, and he could have any woman he wanted. And the rumor was that he’d already had several. Not overweight, middle-aged mothers of two, who wore beige dresses that made them look as if they were part of the furniture, Susan castigated herself, but attractive younger women like Rosa Leoni and Judi Butler, both of whom no longer worked for the magazine. Not that Susan believed any of the office gossip. She understood that Judi’s frequent lunches and private meetings with her boss had been strictly work-related. Still, she hadn’t been unhappy to see either Rosa Leoni or Judi Butler leave. Not that she was jealous, for heaven’s sake. She was a married woman. A happily married woman, Susan reminded herself emphatically, clasping her hands together primly in her lap. Good God, what was the matter with her? Where were these strange thoughts coming from?
“Tell me something personal about yourself,” Peter Bassett was saying.
Susan paused, not sure what he was getting at. “I’m not sure I understand. What would you like to know?”
“Whatever information you can spare. You’re a woman of mystery, Susan Norman.”
Susan might have laughed out loud had she not been so absurdly flattered. “Hardly.”
“I can’t get a handle on you.”
“You can’t?”
“We’ve been working together, how long? Almost two years now? And still you intrigue me.”
“I intrigue you?” Susan repeated, hypnotized by his choice of words. She was forty-three years old. She’d never intrigued anyone in her whole life.
“You’re a fascinating woman.”
Mysterious, intriguing, and now fascinating, Susan thought. There was no question about it—Peter Bassett was flirting with her and she knew it, and he knew she knew it, and it was all so obvious and so silly that Susan would have rolled her eyes and laughed in his face had she not needed all her energy to keep from jumping into his lap and wrapping her thighs around his waist. Dear God, what was the matter with her?
“I’d really like to kiss you right now,” Peter whispered.
Susan said nothing. A sound, like someone having trouble breathing, reached her ears, and she knew it was her own body giving her away. Peter leaned closer until she could almost taste his breath on the tip of her tongue. His eyelashes fluttered against hers. His lips grazed her own. She felt a spark, like the flick of a match, ignite her skin. What was she doing? she wondered, as his lips pressed deeply against hers, and his tongue played gently in her mouth.
I’m too smart for this, she thought, watching from somewhere outside herself as his arms drew her closer still. Who is this woman? Surely not principled, practical, overweight Susan Norman, the good doctor’s wife? Hadn’t she once told Vicki there was no way she’d ever consider cheating on her husband?
Never say never, Vicki had warned.
A knock on the door split them suddenly apart.
“Yes?” Peter asked, on his feet and at the door, fully in control.
“Jason Elliott is waiting in your office,” Susan heard his secretary say.
“Be right there.” He turned back to Susan, who was still sitting in her seat, unable to move. “Later,” he said.
Nineteen
The sound of the phone ringing woke Vicki from a dream in which she was chasing a faceless woman down an unfamiliar street. Just as the woman stopped and turned around, Vicki ran smack into the proverbial brick wall. She saw stars, heard bells, realized it was the phone, dragged herself reluctantly into consciousness. “Hello,” she whispered into the receiver, trying to rub a budding headache away from her forehead. Too much red wine, she thought, trying to remember how many bottles they’d gone through.
“Good morning. This is your six-thirty wake-up call.”
Vicki automatically checked the clock beside the king-size bed. Six-thirty on the dot. Exactly as requested. Who said Holiday Inns didn’t offer four-star service? “Thank you.” She replaced the receiver, sat up in bed, brought her knees to her chest, the crumpled white sheet falling from her small, bare breasts. How could it be six-thirty already? Hadn’t they just gotten into bed? “Hey, you, sleepyhead,” she said to the naked man beside her. “Wake up, darlin’. Time to start the day.”
“Says who?” The man’s voice was a low purr, full of the sands of sleep, as if he’d been gargling gravel.
“Says me.” Vicki jumped out of bed, headed for the bathroom. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly the Ritz, she thought, running the shower, stepping into the tub and under the sputtering spray, feeling her body coming gradually awake under the uneven outpouring of hot water. She groaned, soaping herself with the expensive bar of Chanel soap she’d brought from home, and slowly rolled her neck back over the top of her spine, the water licking at her exposed throat like a lover’s tongue.
She heard a noise, felt a cold whoosh of air as the bathroom door opened, saw the shadow moving toward her, pulling back the curtain, shadow becoming flesh as the naked man stepped into the tub behind her and lifted the soap from her hand. “Let me do that,” he said.
>
Jeremy always liked making love in the shower, Vicki thought with a smile. Said it reminded him of their honeymoon in Hawaii, where they’d managed to find a private waterfall not far from their hotel and make love under the stars every night.
Except this wasn’t Hawaii.
And it wasn’t Jeremy.
Vicki sighed as the man’s soapy hands curled around her, cupped her breasts. Jeremy was in Florida negotiating with some local TV station about becoming a partner, while she was here at the Holiday Inn Cincinnati-Airport, which was actually located in Erlanger, Kentucky, with assistant state’s attorney Michael Rose, with whom she’d been having a fairly torrid affair for the past three months. It was probably time to end it, Vicki thought, as he entered her quickly from behind, his fingers digging into the tiny daisy tattoo she’d recently had etched into her inner thigh as he pounded her with such early-morning vigor she almost slipped and fell, her hands shooting out to balance herself against the white tile of the walls.
That’s all I’d need, she thought, adjusting to the tempo of his thrusts. A broken arm or leg. How to explain that one? Although she doubted Jeremy would ask for an explanation. Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies. Wasn’t that their silent agreement? She doubted her husband spent his many nights away from her all by himself, although he’d been slowing down of late, so maybe sex wasn’t such a big deal to him anymore.
“God, that feels good,” she heard herself say, glad he was taking her from behind. This way she didn’t have to look at him, pretend he was more than he was. It was enough he was young, at least five years younger than she was, and didn’t have to be coaxed into action. Vicki loved her husband, but God, sometimes he was hard work. She’d be on her knees for twenty minutes, and for what? A thirty-second payoff. Men like Michael Rose were her way of evening out the equation.
“You’re something else,” he whispered in her ear.
Why did men find it necessary to talk? Especially when they weren’t really saying anything. You’re something else. What the hell did that mean? Vicki grunted appreciatively, but in truth, she didn’t feel particularly appreciative. What was she doing that was so praiseworthy? Just standing there, hanging on for dear life. It wasn’t exactly rocket science, as her son, Josh, might say. God, what would the boy say if he could see his mother now?
And what of Kirsten?
“I don’t understand. Why won’t you be home tonight?” her daughter had demanded indignantly when Vicki had informed her of her plans to be away overnight.
“I told you. A client is flying in from New York and we’re meeting at the airport. The meeting’s liable to go on half the night. It’ll be easier if I just stay over.”
“I don’t understand,” Kirsten said again, although maybe she did, Vicki thought now. Maybe she understood all too well. She was almost fifteen, after all. Vicki pictured her daughter, an exact replica of herself at that age, all skinny limbs and knobby knees, small, pert breasts, concave stomach. Only the hair was different. Kirsten’s red hair was a shade or two darker than her mother’s, and it hung lazily down her back and over her forehead, hiding a face that was more interesting than beautiful, a face still growing into its potential. She probably wishes her eyes were bigger and her nose smaller, Vicki thought, just as she had wished at that age.
Had her mother wished the same thing?
Vicki shook her head free of her mother’s unexpected intrusion into her reveries. She hadn’t thought about her mother in months, had finally, after all this time, dismissed the private detective she’d hired to find her, informed him his services were no longer required. Enough was enough. She had neither the time nor the patience anymore for this prolonged game of cat and mouse. If her mother had any interest in seeing her again, well, then, it was her turn to do something about it. Vicki was calling in the troops, waving the white flag of surrender. You win, she was saying. I give up.
So what was her mother doing here now, uninvited and unannounced? Vicki thought impatiently, shaking her head again, this time so strongly her whole body shook. Michael Rose mistook her sudden moves as an indication she was approaching orgasm and immediately picked up the pace, ferociously slamming his body against hers until she was pressed so tightly against the wet wall of the shower, she could barely breathe. She heard Michael shudder to a climax, felt his lips brush against the top of her shoulder as he slipped effortlessly out of her.
“You’re something else,” he said again.
Was that all he could think of to say? Vicki wondered, grabbing the soap and washing what remained of him from between her legs. No wonder his summations to the jury left something to be desired. No wonder she never had any trouble beating him in court. You’re something else, she repeated silently, rolling her eyes directly into the water’s spray.
I’m something else all right, she thought, picturing Jeremy asleep in his bed at the Brazilian Court in Palm Beach. She should have gone with him. A few days in Florida might have done her some good. She needed a rest, and surely her office could have managed without her. Although then she would have missed Susan’s phone call, and whatever it was Susan wanted to discuss sounded like it couldn’t wait. She was coming over first thing this morning. Eight o’clock, before she went to work. Vicki shut off the water, stepped around assistant state’s attorney Michael Rose, and out of the tub. What was so damned important Susan couldn’t wait?
Vicki was almost dressed by the time Michael emerged from the bathroom, dark hair falling across his broad forehead, a towel wrapped around his slim hips. Tall, dark, and traditionally handsome, Vicki thought, not quite looking at him, preferring the generic to the specific, careful, as always, not to become too engrossed in particulars. It was easier that way to keep your distance. To say good-bye.
“I should get going,” Vicki said.
“Now? I thought we’d order room service.”
“No time.” Vicki adjusted her gray A-line skirt so that the seams fell correctly on her hips and grabbed her matching jacket from the blue velvet chair beside the bed.
“It’s early.” Michael Rose checked his bare wrist where his watch normally sat.
Vicki tried not to notice the question in his eyes, the budding hurt in his voice. “I have a client coming in at eight o’clock.” She ran a quick comb through her short, wet hair.
“How about tonight? Dinner at Dee Felice Cafe?”
“Can’t.” She pushed her hands through the sleeves of her jacket, did up the fake-pearl buttons.
“I thought your husband was away till the end of the week.” An unflattering pout was working its way between the syllables of his words.
“He is. But I have two children, remember?”
“So you tell them you’re working late.”
“Can’t.”
“Vicki …”
“Michael …”
He laughed, but the laugh crackled with the static of defeat. “How about tomorrow?”
“Michael …”
“Vicki …”
Her turn to laugh, but the laugh crackled with the threat of bad news. “I think maybe it’s time we give this a rest.”
“Give what a rest?” Surprise, concern, then disbelief traveled back and forth between his eyes and mouth. “Us?”
“There is no us, Michael.” Vicki stopped adjusting her clothing, looked directly at him for the first time since they’d woken up. “I have a husband. You have a wife.”
“So?”
“So …” Vicki lifted her hands into the air, as if asking, Isn’t that explanation enough?
“That’s never stopped you before.” Disbelief was morphing rapidly into anger.
Vicki felt the air constrict in her chest, as if she were being squeezed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I don’t think you give two shits how I feel.”
“Michael, please. Is this necessary?”
Michael looked helplessly around the room. “I thought we had something going here.”
/>
“We did.” Going, going, gone, she thought. “It’s nothing you did, Michael.”
“You’re not going to insult my intelligence by giving me that old ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ speech, are you?”
“No, of course not,” Vicki lied. “Look, I’m really sorry.”
“I just don’t understand how the roles got reversed,” he said after a pause, stroking his hair in disbelief as Vicki headed for the door. “I mean, I’m the one who’s supposed to be hurrying off to work. You’re supposed to be the one standing naked under a towel begging me to stay.”
So that’s what this little scene was really about, Vicki marveled. Not love or even lust. Not disappointment or distress. It was about wounded egos, about wanting to be the first to leave. “Sorry, Michael,” Vicki said again, although she was feeling less so, and then, because she couldn’t resist: “I guess I’ll see you in court.”
“Okay, so what’s the problem?” Vicki settled in behind her desk, a cup of hot black coffee in her hand, and raised her freshly penciled-in eyebrows at her friend. She’d had just enough time to finish putting on her makeup before Susan arrived, ten minutes early, for her scheduled appointment. Susan smiled, but looked distinctly uncomfortable, which was unusual for Susan, who’d always seemed very comfortable in her skin. Now she was shifting restlessly in her chair, looking from the window to her lap, then back again, ignoring the coffee on the desk in front of her, obviously dreading what she’d come here to say. She was wearing a stylish olive green pantsuit, and her hair fell about her round face in soft waves. That was one of the pluses of being overweight, Vicki thought. Your face was fuller; there were fewer age-revealing lines cluttering the skin around your eyes and mouth. Vicki noted the pale peach lipstick that added fresh lushness to Susan’s already full lips, the hint of blush that gave definition to her round cheeks. There was an unfamiliar sparkle to her eyes. Vicki was astounded to realize that Susan was actually glowing. “You’re not pregnant, are you?” she gasped.