by Mia Carson
I glanced at him, feeling my cheeks redden. I couldn’t change my name, just to change it back in a month. The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach intensified.
“She doesn’t have a key yet, but I’m having Isaac make her one this afternoon.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Creed. Nice to meet you!” Peter beamed at me, and I smiled weakly back.
All was forgotten when the elevator doors slid open, revealing Scott’s home. Fifteen foot ceilings, everything in shades of black and grey. The sleek, ultra-modern kitchen stretched out to the left of the doorway, and a bright living room gaped to the right. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased Central Park and the Manhattan skyline.
I never thought I’d be anywhere like this in my life.
“Follow me.” Scott walked straight down a hallway and up a curving flight of dove-grey carpeted stairs. He opened a door and revealed a sprawling bedroom. The cute bungalow I’d mentioned? Probably could fit in this one room. My old living room was the size of the attached bathroom. Was he giving me the master bedroom?
“This is the guest suite. I’m right across the hall. You can come in any time. Make yourself at home.”
“Are you serious?” I couldn’t tell if he really didn’t understand how crazy this was or if he was just messing with me.
“You live here now, at least for the foreseeable future. Tomorrow night we have an art opening at the Coventry Art Gallery. Starts at seven. You’re probably going to want to do some shopping before that. When are they expecting you back at work?”
“Uh, tomorrow. In the morning.”
“Can you blow it off for the day? I mean, your simple presence here is kind of work, right? You can tell them it’s your first day in my house and you think you might have already figured out where I keep all the good secrets.”
“Yeah, I can call out.” I thought about the piles of paperwork I’d come back to on my desk on Thursday morning, but Scott had a point. I was working here.
“Do you need anything?”
“No, thanks.”
“Okay. Food in the fridge, entertainment center in the den. I’ve got some work to do. I’ll be in my office.”
“Great. Thanks.”
Scott left me standing in the middle of the palatial room. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and I was officially a kept woman. I sat on the edge of the bed and discovered an amazing memory foam mattress and about a million-count cotton sheets. I supposed I could explore, though I didn’t feel quite comfortable leaving what we’d established as my space. I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. My phone buzzed.
When do you want me to come by with your stuff? Susie. The kindergarten teacher texted me! She wants to get together some weekend soon!
How nice to meet a normal human being and share a connection. The only connection Scott and I shared was when neither of us wore pants. For a brief second I wondered if he would be up for a roll in the hay, but after yesterday I didn’t think I could take another round.
I decided I’d have Susie bring the stuff by later and take a bath in the swimming pool-sized Jacuzzi tub in the attached bathroom. An array of decadent smelling bath salts and oils graced the edge of the tub, and I chose lavender. I got the water as hot as I could stand and locked both the bedroom and bathroom doors before sinking into the water.
Scott
I had lunch with Giuliana to let her know I wouldn’t be marrying her after all. She sauntered into the restaurant almost a half an hour late with an expression of perfect disinterest on her beautiful, augmented face. She wore a dress so low cut I could see her belly button and the generous sides of her fake breasts. Nothing I hadn’t seen before. Long blonde hair tumbled down over her shoulders, and her makeup accentuated her cheek bones and lips. She was beautiful, of course, but she was a complete Machiavellian creature.
I stood and held her chair for her, giving air kisses by way of greeting.
“I couldn’t possibly eat anything. I’m full to bursting,” she lied. I could count her ribs through her tight dress. The woman was in drastic need of a cheeseburger. “I’ll just get a drink while you order lunch.” Irritating, but not unexpected.
“How were the Canaries?”
“Oh, you know. They’re just not like they used to be. So many tourists these days. The villa I rent used to be far away from everything. Now you can hear traffic from a major road, and you can see the other houses. It’s not relaxing.”
“Such is the price of progress. Your ocean view is still intact?”
“I own all the way down to the water. They’ll get my ocean view and private beach when they pry them from my cold, dead hands.”
As though it wasn’t an abnormal request, she ordered a vodka, no ice. The waiter was good, didn’t even quirk an eyebrow. I ordered a burger. I’d seen Giuliana get drunk enough to devour them with orgasmic passion.
“Change of plans, love,” I announced.
“At least wait until they bring my drink.”
“Fair enough.”
“You were in Las Vegas? How plebeian.”
“It was a hell of a trip.”
“You were with Ryan?”
“Yeah.”
“How is Ryan? He got divorced, right?”
“I believe he’s actually been remarried and divorced again since the last time you saw him.”
“Huh. Is it him, or is it them?” she asked, skeptical.
“I’d say it’s a little of both.”
The waiter set Giuliana’s vodka in front of her and my beer in front of me. She took a healthy pull of her drink, and for all the world she looked like a thirsty woman drinking a glass of water. “Change of plans?”
“I can’t marry you.”
She raised her gaze to me, her body motionless. “What are you talking about?”
“I got very, very drunk in Las Vegas and woke up with this.” I flashed my left hand, showing off the ring. I still wore the cheap band we’d bought at the chapel. I saw no reason to upgrade to something more substantial.
Her eyes narrowed, and she took another drink. “Who’s the lucky lady?” The ice in her tone could cool a drink.
“An account specialist from a financial firm here in the city.”
Giuliana set her drink down. “You’re kidding me.”
“Nope.”
“What are you doing? We had a deal.”
“We discussed it, but we didn’t sign anything.”
“We planned to announce our engagement tonight at Coventry. What are you doing, Scott? You don’t want to be married any more than I do.”
“I fell in love. What can I say?”
She took a few measured breaths and polished off the rest of the drink. “I guess that concludes our lunch, then. Unless you have something else you’d like to tell me?”
“No, that was all I had.”
“Scott?”
“Yes, Giuliana?”
“You’ve made a terrible mistake.”
“Maybe.”
“Setting aside the fact that you’ve married some classless Vegas tourist, you have made me most unhappy.”
“I suspected I might have.”
“This is not going to work out well for you, I promise.”
“Are you threatening me? I honestly can’t tell.”
She laughed, a sound with no humor, and left the restaurant, passing the waiter with my burger. It tasted delicious.
###
I’d expected to glean some manner of amusement from the arrangement with Mackenzie, but in reality, she behaved like a trapped wild animal in my house. She was impressed with my chef and the omelets he cooked for breakfast, but other than that, she stayed in her room all day. I hired her a stylist, because let’s be honest, she wasn’t going to make the impression I needed her to without one. The stylist went in, and as the hour got closer and closer to seven, I started to worry.
I dressed myself and sat at the island in the kitchen, running my fingers over the flecked marble counterto
p. I wanted us to be late enough to make a notable entrance, but I didn’t want to be rude. I heard the door open upstairs, and in that moment I was convinced I’d made a terrible mistake. I should have stuck with Giuliana, even if it meant buying stock in Grey Goose and having palates of it shipped to my door.
Mackenzie appeared in the kitchen doorway and took my breath away. Her floor-length gown was a glittering, royal blue material, strapless, with a heart-shaped bodice. A matching shawl draped over her shoulders. The stylist had curled a gentle wave into her thick brown hair, and it hung loose to the tops of her breasts.
“Wow,” I said. “You look great.”
“Thanks.” Mackenzie blushed and smiled a little. For a heartbeat I think we’d forgotten we didn’t like each other.
I made a spinning gesture with my finger, and she twirled, the skirt of the dress billowing out around her. “You look amazing.”
“You said that.”
“It bears repeating.”
We headed to the elevator. “So what kind of artwork will be at this opening?”
“Honestly I have no idea. I don’t know art.”
“I can tell.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She sighed. “Every one of your pieces looks like you chose it because it was expensive, not because you care about it.” She sighed again. “Did you even pick them, or did some designer?”
“The designer.” I felt more chastised than I expected to over it.
“None of them are you. The colors match, but there’s no personality. If you’d spent a few hours at some of the galleries downtown, you could have spent far less and gotten pieces that fit the décor just as well but that actually say something about Scott Creed.”
“Like what?”
“I certainly don’t know. I just met you.” The coldness crept back into her voice, then, and she crossed her arms in such a way that pressed her breasts up. Her cleavage plunged miles deep.
I was tired of women being upset with me, but on this day I deserved it. I ran some numbers in my head. Maybe I deserved it most days. I shoved the pesky thought out of my head.
“So what’s your plan?” Mackenzie was all business now. “We show up, we tell everyone we’re married, we toast, we mingle, and we go?”
“You have somewhere better to be?”
“Aren’t you worried I’m going to embarrass you? I’m one of five kids. I wash bread bags so I can reuse them.”
“Five kids? Damn.”
“I know nothing about your people, or what to talk about, or anything.”
“You’re aware of what the weather has been. Everyone’s favorite small talk. ‘This spring has been unseasonably cold this year, don’t you think?’ You have an art degree. Surely you can say something articulate about the art we’ll be looking at. Be positive, even if you don’t like it. The artist will be there, and we don’t want to upset her.”
“I’m not an asshole. I’m not going to trash-talk an artist at her opening.”
“I’m trying to do damage control before I need to.”
“If you’re worried about damage control, maybe this isn’t a good idea.”
“I’m well aware this isn’t a good idea, but you’re getting scads of money out of it, and I’m getting the glowing approval of my future business partners.”
“Do you even need this merger? You’re not, like, going broke, are you?”
I laughed as the elevator doors opened. Peter let us know the limo was waiting outside. “Not even close.”
I was fine. It was Serena I was worried about. Once she burned through what she had, she’d start going after our parents. With the merger, I could funnel money to her and keep her from heading to Mom and Dad for handouts. Without the merger, someone was going to have to make some lifestyle changes.
My chauffeur opened and closed the doors for us, and Mackenzie slid in, gawking at the plush, dove grey interior.
“Drink?” I offered.
“That would be nice. Gin and tonic?”
I loved gin and tonics. A lot of people my age didn’t appreciate the drink nearly as much as I did. “Worried about malaria?”
She laughed. “You can never be too safe.”
I made the drink at the little bar as we crossed the city.
“So who’s going to be there that I’m supposed to impress?”
“Good question. Percival Hall. His daughter, Marguerite, is the artist.”
Mackenzie laughed. “Is she any good?”
“I’m not an artist, so I couldn’t say.”
“Oh, come on. You have some sense of taste. I’m sure you can tell if something’s pleasing to the eye or not. Do you like it?”
“I’m sure someone likes it.”
“You’re really putting me through the paces, huh?”
The comment ignited something deep and low in me. I’d love to put her through the paces, maybe like I had in the box at the club. I ran my gaze over her tits and thought about what I’d like to do to them.
“What if I act like a total bitch and royally screw things up for you?”
“You’re out over a hundred grand, and I don’t get my merger.”
“You’re not worried about that?”
“A hundred grand is a lot of money. Or so I hear. Are you going to screw me over?”
“Guess you’ll have to find out.”
She wouldn’t. I knew it. Our eyes locked, the gaze held, and I broke away first, not feeling great about how we’d gotten here. The idea had seemed like a good one at the time, something to impress Ryan. Something to get back at Mackenzie for trying to ruin me for a paycheck. She didn’t even know me. I could feel her stare on me for a few beats longer, and she turned out the window.
“I always wonder who is in limos when I pass them. You can never see in the windows, though. It’s so mysterious.”
“Mostly boring people with too much money to burn.”
“Duly noted.”
The driver stopped in front of the Coventry Gallery and let us out. Mackenzie paused, took a breath, and worked to compose herself. “Let’s go.” She took my arm with a light touch. I led her inside.
Mackenzie
One thing was clear the moment we crossed the threshold into the gallery. Marguerite Hall was a terrible artist who never, in a million years, would have had her own show if her daddy wasn’t rich. She used bold, discordant colors and blocky, blunt strokes. If I squinted and thought my most generous thoughts, I could imagine what she was going for, but mostly her work was just bad. The opening painting struck me as blatant rip off of George Rodrigue’s Blue Dog series, though this dog was mottled-pink, orange and yellow, and looked rabid.
I leaned close to Scott. “Are you punishing me?”
He leaned in to me. “Yes, obviously. But not with the art. Is it bad?” His breath was hot in my ear.
I stifled a laugh. “It’s abysmal. She’s got no eye for color, she’s—”
“Marguerite!” Scott interrupted in a booming voice. “You get more and more talented every year.”
The artist stood before us, waif-thin in a gown that accentuated her gauntness. Half her head was shaved, the other hung long beyond her shoulder, and she’d colored that half in streaks of purple and bleached blonde. Heavy eye make-up distracted from anything else about her face. She held a hand out for Scott to kiss, and I could see her fingernails were false, black talons. No wonder her art was so shitty; it had to be hard holding a paintbrush.
“Congratulations, darling,” Scott schmoozed. “Please meet my wife, Mackenzie.”
I shook her hand, which sat in mine like a cold, dead fish. “It’s a pleasure,” I lied.
“Mackenzie has an art history degree. I’m sure the two of you will have loads to talk about.”
“Oh, what was your medium?”
“Uh, history. The Renaissance period.”
“Isn’t that kind of pedestrian? Do you paint? Sculpt? Draw?”
For whatever reason, I didn
’t want Scott to find out about my drawing. I’d spent years wanting to be a comic book artist before my dad and older sister convinced me to get my accounting degree and find a real job. Looking at Marguerite, I was glad I had.
“No, I like to read about the paintings and learn about them. I don’t have a creative bone in my body.” That part, at least, was true. Art, music, especially writing were all an uphill slog for me. Still, when it came to drawing, I put in the time and practiced. Someday I might win the Powerball and could be a decent background artist for DC or Marvel.
The thought hit me like a lightning bolt. I hadn’t thought of this in these terms before. I’d won better than the Powerball. I glanced at Scott and smiled at him. My warmth clearly put him on edge because he gave me a nervous half-smile in return.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” I asked.
The question shocked him. “Gin and tonic. Please. Thank you.”
I walked to the open bar and ordered the drink. I glanced at Scott, who stood talking to a white haired man who’d looped his arm around Marguerite’s waist. Probably her father, the one Scott was so hell-bent on impressing. Wait, no, definitely not her father. The old man leaned in, kissed her hard on her painted lips and slapped her ass as he sauntered away.
“Are you Mrs. Creed?” A voice purred in my ear.
I turned on my smile. “I’m keeping my maiden name, Taylor.”
“But you are her?”
Like our artist friend, this woman was also too thin. I’m a size four and felt like a cow in here. This lady had the benefit of looking like she’d spent way too much time in the sun, and her fake tits were ridiculous on her tiny body.
“I’m Giuliana PostvanderBerg. I know you’re new to all this.” She waved a hand, and a diamond-encrusted tennis bracelet swung on her wrist. “You just let me know if you need anything, and I’m happy to help.”
“That’s really sweet of you. Thank you.”
People crapped on the rich all the time, but honestly, everyone here seemed pleasant enough. I felt bad for judging her fake breasts so harshly.
“Scott and I go way back,” she informed me. “I know him quite well and may be able to offer you my unique perspective.”