Just One Night: The Stranger Part 2

When Tom had told me that, I once again saw the suspicion in his eyes. It was easy to attack Tom's mannerisms, even his management style, but not his intelligence. I made up a story as to how I had met Mr. Dade. How I had told him what I did for a living and boasted of professional successes as we stood in a painfully long airport security line. I said I had given Mr. Dade my card but been separated from him before getting the name of his company.

Even as I utter my explanations and excuses, I can see their transparency. But I so want Tom to suspend disbelief. I want him to accept the ridiculous idea that I inadvertently and unknowingly gave a powerful CEO the pitch of a lifetime. I want him to put away that curious smile he's been sharing with me these days. I want him to stop looking at me like he suddenly realizes that I might be hiding something under my boxy blazers and wide-legged pantsuits. I want him to stop treating me like I'm as unscrupulously ambitious as he is.

Tom now stops to talk to me on a daily basis.

But right now I'm not in the office. It's Friday morning. I take extra care with my appearance. I pull my hair back into a severe twist. My navy blazer falls in a straight line to my hips without so much as a hint of femininity. I pair it with a matching straight skirt. There is no invitation whispered within the folds of this fabric. There's nothing here to entice.

As I stare at my reflection in my pale blue bathroom, I debate the problem of make-up. Without it I look softer, younger, more vulnerable.

I always wear make-up.

I drag a moist sponge across my skin, spreading foundation over my little imperfections; a small pimple along my hairline, the few freckles I earned while bicycling through those childhood days of summer . . . covering up all the tiny details that make me human. I darken my cheeks with bronzer and press a gray pencil against the tender flesh beneath my lower lashes.

This is the version of me that I'm allowed to show the world. This is not the woman Mr. Dade met in Vegas.

I buried that woman in a garment bag.

BECAUSE I ARRIVE at the offices of Maned Wolf Security Systems fifteen minutes early, I can pause to admire the building that houses them. It should have been cold with its darkly mirrored exterior but here, in Santa Monica, it reflects the sun and the palm trees that surround it, adding warmth to its power.

And he had been warm when I had touched him. The kisses against my neck had been gentle even as he had pinned me up against the wall. Then there had been his fingers . . . when he had stroked me with them, pushed them inside me, playing me just so as if he was a master pianist bringing forth the aching notes of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata . . . warm, powerful. . . .

My purse vibrates as my phone jerks me back to reality.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Miss Fitzgerald? I'm Sonya, Mr. Dade's executive a.s.sistant. There's been a slight change of plans. Mr. Dade would like you to meet him at the bar Le Fte. It's located one block south of our office building."

"Any particular reason for the relocation?"

"Mr. Dade will of course cover the expense of anything you order and the valet."

That hadn't been my question but it seems unlikely that this woman would have been able to give me a satisfactory answer.

I look back up at the building and then down at the briefcase in my hand. "I'll be there. . . . My firm will cover all additional expenses."

"May I ask how far away you are?"

"I'm here," I say, "at your building. One block away from Le Fte."

I hang up and walk past the building, with its darkly tinted windows and reflected palm trees, to Mr. Dade.

HE LOOKS THE SAME. I stand by the host station so I can discreetly observe him. He sits alone at a small bar table while he reads something on his iPad. He's wearing a light gray cotton s.h.i.+rt with black trousers. Still no tie, no blazer, nothing that demands deference from the world he controls.

Then again, Mr. Dade doesn't need clothes to announce his authority. That statement is made in the way he holds himself. It's in the intensity of his hazel eyes, the obvious strength of his body; it's in the confidant smile he's directing at me.

Oh yes, he's spotted me all right, and under the intensity of his gaze I have to work harder to remember the little things: keep your head up, walk with purpose, breath, don't forget who you are.

I walked through the maze of tables to his side. "Mr. Dade." I keep my voice cool and professional as I offer him my hand.

"Kasie." He gets to his feet and presses his palm against mine, demonstrating a firm grip and holding on for far too long. "I am so glad to see you again."

He's moving his thumb back and forth over my skin again. It's such a small thing, something I should be able to easily brush off. But instead goose b.u.mps pop up all over my arm.

He notices and his smile gets a little wider. "Last time I saw you this fell out of your purse." He holds up my business card. "I found it on the floor of my suite."

I yank away my hand and take a seat.

"I always conduct my meetings in offices, Mr. Dade."

"Ah, but I'm afraid my office was ill-equipped for you today."

"Ill-equipped?"

He nods and out of nowhere a waitress appears with two gla.s.ses balanced on a tray.

"Iced tea." She puts the tall gla.s.s in front of Mr. Dade. "And scotch on the rocks."

I feel myself heat up as she places the much shorter gla.s.s in front of me.

"I thought of ordering a gla.s.s for myself," he explains, "but then I remembered your willingness to share."

I stare down at the bobbing ice cubes in the light copper liquid.

I know what can be done with those ice cubes.

"I'm here for business, Mr. Dade."

He smiles and leans forward, propping his elbows on the slightly unsteady table. "You know my first name now. You're allowed to use it."

"I think it's better if we keep things professional." There's a slight quiver to my voice. Against my better judgment I reach for the drink.

"Very well. Continue to call me Mr. Dade and I'll continue to call you Kasie."

I take a long sip of the whiskey; the taste's too familiar, the memories are too animated. "I'm here to talk to you about my ideas for Maned Wolf Security Systems."

"For the sake of convenience, let's just call it Maned Wolf."

I nod. It's the first nonloaded thing he's said and I'm incredibly grateful for this small gift. "If you're seriously considering taking Maned Wolf public, and the doc.u.ments your staff e-mailed me suggest that you are, you need to grow your personal Internet security business. Everyone knows the government relies on you to keep its files safe. The average customer will want to feel like they're buying in to that same level of protection."

"Why try to reach so many when I can reach a few who will pay me so much more?"

"Because the greatest growth and most impressive profits fall to those who value volume over exclusivity. A single high-volume Starbucks will always be more profitable than Le Cirque."

"I see." I watch as his mouth forms the words with exaggerated slowness. I like his mouth. Some would say it's a little too big for his face but it's sensual. "So you're not a fan of exclusivity," he continues. "You like to mix it up."

The innuendo is clear.

"Mr. Dade, are you familiar with the s.e.xual hara.s.sment laws of California?"

"Kasie, are you telling me that you're ready to go public with our little escapade in order to charge me?"

I don't answer. My hand's clenched around the handle of my briefcase.

"Have another sip of your drink . . . your ice is melting."

"Did you ask me here because you want to hear my proposals?" I want the question to sound like a challenge, not a plea.

I'm not entirely successful with that.

"Yes," he says firmly. "I've done some checking. You're a rising star at your firm. I'm paying for your expertise, that's all."

I drink more of the scotch and wait for it to give me the artifice of courage. "You don't need me."

"No, I don't. But I do want you."

Another sip of scotch-it burns my throat and sharpens my edge. "My proposals." I carefully prop up my briefcase on the edge of the table and then manage to take out a folder filled with material without dropping anything on the floor. "Shall we go over them now? Or should we reschedule?"

I watch as his body s.h.i.+fts, changing its posture from one of provocation to one of welcome. He gestures to my file. "Please."

Even that simple word is a reminder.

And yet I manage to keep my focus. I tell him stories of growth, unfathomable prosperity, the kind even a company like Maned Wolf has yet to achieve. But they could. My team could get them there. I could get them there. Given the chance, I can find those little flaws that can quietly hold a giant back from achieving an ultimate conquest. Sometimes those imperfections can be cut out, removed entirely. Sometimes they just need to be covered up with a little foundation.

Mr. Dade listens. He's an active listener. He doesn't have to say a word. I can see he understands; sense when he approves, when he's impressed, and when he's not. I feed off this, changing my pitch ever so slightly with the changes of his expressions. I know when to give him more details about one thing, when to brush over another. We're in sync.

It's business. It shouldn't be s.e.xy.

And yet . . .

Eventually he steeples his long fingers. He's the businessman, the pianist, the devil. "Of course you're speaking in generalities," he says. "In order to get specifics and introduce any idea that's implementable, you're going to have to look at our company a little more closely. Talk to the directors of the different divisions. You're going to have to get inside the walls of my world."

"But I'm going to do so much more than that," I quip. "I'm going to break those walls down. It's the only way you can reach your potential."

He laughs. I'm feeling relaxed now. I'm enjoying myself.

More than I should be.

He places a credit card on the table; it's the only hint our attentive server needs. It's all I need, too. I get to my feet but he stops me with a small gesture of his hand.

And again I find myself held by his gaze.

The waiter charges the card, returns it; Mr. Dade writes in a ridiculously large tip before escorting me out. "Where did you park?"

I jerk my chin in the direction of my car.

He starts walking with me. He doesn't ask if it's okay.

"I hate your suit."

"Good thing you don't have to wear it," I say. There's my car, parked parallel on the street, ready to spirit me to safety.

"Neither do you."

I stop in front of my car. My keys are in my purse. I need to get them out, right now. Why can't I move?

I feel his hands even though they're not touching my skin. They're on my lapel. He's unb.u.t.toning my jacket, removing it from my shoulders, pulling it off of me, right here in the middle of a busy sidewalk. I can't let people see him doing this to me. I can't let him do it period.

Sometimes I'm shocked by how weak the word can't can be.

"This is my suit," I whisper.

"It's a habit."

I look up at him, making a silent request for clarification.

"Like the habit of a nun," he says. "Clothes designed to hide every curve, every alluring detail, a respectable choice for a woman who has chosen a life of chast.i.ty. But . . ."

He pauses and brings his hand to the back of my neck. I s.h.i.+ver as his fingers slide up, then down, then up again to the base of my skull, into my hair. ". . . We both know, you're no nun."

"I'm dating someone. We're going to get married."

"Really?" The corners of his mouth twitch. "Well, habits come in all different forms, don't they? Some women hide their true selves under multiple layers. Sometimes those layers are made of fabric, some are made of misguided relations.h.i.+ps."

"You don't know anything about my relations.h.i.+p. You don't know me."

"Perhaps not. But I know what you look like when you're completely stripped of all those layers."

My skirt hangs straight to my knees; my s.h.i.+rt reveals nothing. And yet I feel naked, standing here on the sidewalk, being quietly inspected by this man whose vision is aided by one intimate night I had recklessly given him.

People are watching. I don't have to look at the many pedestrians pa.s.sing by to know it. I feel their gaze the way I felt it in Vegas.

But there is one important distinction: in Vegas audacity has a home. Displaying myself in that tight dress in front of a room full of stares: it fit with the expectations of the city. It's all detailed in the brochures. Vegas has a fantasy-based economy. It's just how it is.

But here, standing in front of a Santa Monica office building, miles away from the street performers who line the Promenade, Mr. Dade's attention is out of place.

People are looking at us. They can see the sparks, feel the tension. They want to know what's going to happen next.

I want to know what's going to happen next.

But I can't give in to that. I suck in a sharp breath, roll my shoulders back, try not to feel their stares, his stare.

"You've put me in a difficult position, Mr. Dade." Is that my voice, filled with convincing but false confidence and composure? Is that me staring into his eyes, as if daring him to push me? "My boss thinks I slept with you to get this account. You've compromised my professional reputation."

He tilts his head to one side as his eyes continue to slide up and down my body the way his fingers moved over my neck only a moment ago. "I don't throw business to every woman I sleep with. Only the ones with Harvard business degrees."