Just One Night: The Stranger Part 3

"Ah," I say. "Well then I guess it's a good thing I didn't go to Yale."

I gently pull away from him, turn, and get in my car. His warm laughter follows me as I make my exit.

I'm miles away before I realize he still has my blazer.

CHAPTER 4.

IT'S FRIDAY NIGHT. I cook dinner for Dave at my place on Friday nights. Always. It's a little ritual that erases some of the irksome uncertainty from our lives.

Now he sits at my dining room table eating rosemary chicken and steamed asparagus. A gla.s.s of white wine sits untouched by his plate.

"I've worked out a budget for the ring," he says.

"A budget?"

"I was thinking we should spend around twelve thousand," he suggests. "Twelve thousand buys quality, not flash. We want to keep it real, right?"

I turn my gaze to the gla.s.s door leading to my backyard. Dave is always suggesting we keep things real, but he doesn't seem to actually know what the term means or how to properly apply it.

Do I? When Mr. Dade slid that ice cube up my thigh, when he kissed me in a place where Dave would never kiss me, when he teased me with the flick of his tongue . . . was that real? It had felt more real than anything. And at the same time it hadn't felt real at all.

I look back at the table. It's made of a dark-stained wood that's been polished to an inch of its life. It's solid, dependable, useful. It's real. Just like Dave.

Mr. Dade is the first man who has ever made me come while I was standing up. He's the first man who's ever seen me naked while he remained fully clothed. Even now I can see him, circling me, a.s.sessing, planning, wanting. . . .

I squirmed in my seat.

"Are you all right?" It's Dave's voice. The voice of caution and reason. The voice I should be listening to. "You seem . . . agitated tonight."

The word p.r.i.c.kles my skin. "I have a new account . . . the biggest I've ever worked on. I suppose it . . . has me on edge."

"G.o.d knows, I relate to that. I'm buried these days, too. You know how it is."

I do. Dave's a tax attorney. Like me, he likes things he can count on, and you can always count on the overprivileged to cheat on their taxes. That's where Dave comes in. The rich give him the money they refuse to share with the IRS, and Dave makes their worries disappear.

As I watch him finish his meal, I realize that I want to be something he can count on. And I want him to make my worries vanish like the invisible money he hides away in tax shelters.

He eats his last bite and I stand up and walk behind him. My hands go to his shoulders and I begin to knead away the tension. "Stay the night, Dave."

"Hmm, I was planning on it." He lifts the gla.s.s of wine to his mouth while I lift my fingers and run them through his blond hair. Moving in front of him I straddle his lap.

"I want you, Dave."

"What's gotten into you?" he asks with a wary smile. The winegla.s.s goes back on the table.

I lean forward and let my teeth graze his earlobe. "It's what I want to get into me that's important."

He doesn't respond. His hands go hesitantly to the small of my back.

This could be good. This could be real.

"You don't need to be gentle with me tonight," I whisper. Again my hand goes to his hair but this time I gather it in my fist and pull his head back so he's staring into my eyes. "I want you to tear off my clothes. I want you to hold me down while you press inside."

"Wait, you want . . ." His words fade off; I can feel his hands trembling against me.

"Mmm, I want a lot, ferocity, pa.s.sion, animalism. . . . Overpower me. Tonight I want to be wicked." My voice is teasing and sweet. "Dave, will you f.u.c.k me tonight?"

In an instant he's pushed me off of his lap; I have to reach for the table to steady myself as he leaps away from me.

"What's going on?" He appears disoriented and lost. "This isn't you. You never talk like this."

The sweetness is gone. His bewilderment is pus.h.i.+ng him toward anger.

He's looking at me with . . . disgust. "You don't even swear!"

Shrinking back, I can feel the shame spiraling up my spine and taking hold of my heart. "I was . . . I just thought . . ."

I wither under the hostility of his stare. The power I felt only a second ago is gone. "I guess I'm just overtired," I finish, lamely.

He hesitates. He knows that being tired doesn't explain anything at all but I can see he likes the simplicity of the excuse. He wants to accept it. "You're overwhelmed at work," he says carefully, testing his own ability to defy logic. "That's always exhausting. I know how it is."

"Yes," I say, although my voice is so quiet, it's unclear if he can hear me.

"I think we should call it an early night after all." He takes his jacket, pulls it on. His words are coming a little faster now as he implements his escape. "Sleep is what you need. I'll be back at . . . shall we say eleven tomorrow morning? I have a list of jewelry stores we should start with."

I nod. I can't speak. Not without crying. Dave wants to get away from the demon that briefly possessed me. He a.s.sumes it will slither away after I slip under the covers, alone in my bed.

He crosses to me again, and gives me a brief, gentlemanly kiss on the lips. It's the kiss of forgiveness.

My shame curls up my throat, choking me.

As he opens the door to leave, he turns back with a sympathetic smile. "We'll want to go to several of these stores before we make a decision. Weigh our options and all that."

Again, I nod.

"So don't forget to wear sensible shoes. I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

He blows me a kiss just before the door closes behind him.

Gently, I pick up his winegla.s.s. I take a moment to appreciate the way the overhead lights make the pale liquid sparkle before I bring it to my lips. The taste is floral, sweet, pure. Angelic.

I let these notes play on my tongue before hurling the gla.s.s across the room.

I walk forward and step down on the mess I've made, enjoying the sound of shattered gla.s.s crunching beneath my sensible shoes.

IT'S LATE NOW. I've taken a shower, tried to rinse away the embarra.s.sment and anger with a cheap shampoo. I went too far, that's all. Like the corporations I work with, I am multifaceted, complicated. And like the corporations, there are some departments of my soul that just need to be shut down.

But I do have my strengths. I'm good at my job. I can recognize untapped potential, see strength where others see nothing, and I can find ways to optimize those strengths until all anyone else sees is power.

I sit down at my computer, my hair wet and hanging over the white cotton of a short Donna Karan robe. The terrycloth lining soaks up the moisture from my body and adds a softness that the night has lacked so far.

I send Mr. Dade an e-mail: "I need to meet with the director of your mobile phone security software division. Can we set up a meeting for Monday?"

It's an obvious area for growth. Already there's been buzz about some of the products they've introduced. It addresses a need, feeds into a society's fears . . . there is always so much profit in fear. Insurance companies, Hollywood thrillers, cars with more airbags than cup-holders-they all bank on it.

My Mac chimes as a message pops up: an invitation from Mr. Dade for video conferencing.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, then move to the belt of my robe, pulling it a little tighter. I could ignore this. It's eleven o'clock on a Friday night.

I should have waited until I was dressed to send that e-mail.

I could dress now, put on a suit, pin up my hair, but who wears a suit while at home at eleven on a Friday night? He'll know I made an effort for him, not an effort to please but an effort nonetheless. He'll know the affect he's had on me, and that simply is not an acceptable option.

For some reason, rejecting the invitation doesn't feel like an option, either. And part of me knows that my thinking, my compulsion to press Accept, is no good. But I don't listen to that part of me. Not tonight. It's speaking with too soft a voice for me to feel the weight of its wisdom.

I press Accept.

Mr. Dade appears on my screen like an apparition I summoned from some dark imaginings. He's composed as he watches me from the comfort of his home. In the background I can see his bed. The duvet is a light, glowing orange that reminds me of flames.

"I didn't expect to hear from you," he says. "Do you always work this late on Friday nights?"

"It was just an e-mail," I say, trying to keep my expression cool, lofty, compensating for the intimacy of the white robe. "I wasn't expecting to conference. It was your invitation that was out of place."

"Ah, but it was a working e-mail. I a.s.sume you'll bill me for the time it took you to write it, and probably for the extra minutes it took you to think of it, and even to turn your computer on, probably. You choose your own schedule, Kasie. You chose this as a working hour, and right now you're working for me. It's my expectation that during the hours that you work for me, you make yourself fully available . . . to me."

The words excite me but I press my lips into a hard line that I hope will help me draw the line in the sand that is necessary here. "I'm always available to talk about work, Mr. Dade."

"You can call me Robert."

"If we were friends, I would call you Robert."

"And we're not friends?"

He leans back and for the first time, I can see the graceful curves of the chair he sits in. An antique, perhaps from the eighteenth century. It's a chair that speaks of domination and royalty, but mostly it speaks of money.

I understand money. I can handle it, manipulate it. I can handle this man in his ridiculously expensive chair.

"No," I say firmly. "We're not friends."

"Lovers then? What do you call your lovers, Kasie? Do you address them by their last names? Their first? Or do you turn to words that are a bit more descriptive in nature?"

"We're not lovers."

"Oh, you're wrong there. I've felt you beneath me, I've held those beautiful b.r.e.a.s.t.s, I've been inside your walls. I know where to touch you to make you lose control."

"It was just one night." I try to keep the chill in my tone but I can see that my line in the sand is now threatened by the tide. "An anomaly. I am not your lover now."

"Ah, but then why do you respond to me as if you are?"

The words penetrate. They toy with my nerves and strain my willpower. I look away from the screen. This is stupid. It's not in my plans. I've cleaned up the shards of gla.s.s from the dining room floor. Nothing else has to be broken.

"I want to meet with your directors, your engineers," I say, still keeping my eyes away from the computer. I need to steady my voice, my breathing. "I want to talk to them about your capabilities."

"Do you remember when you touched me here?"

I turn to look at the screen and with a graceful, almost languid ease he pulls off the black T-s.h.i.+rt he's wearing. He's perfect, beautiful, powerful; he runs his fingers over scratch marks on the skin that covers his heart.

Had I done that? I remember dragging my fingernails over his back but . . . oh yes, it was when he had pulled me from the wall and lowered me to the floor. He had gently pinched my nipples as I had pressed my hips against his, no control, just l.u.s.t, desire, and that feeling . . . the feeling of him touching me, the feeling of him opening me up, thrusting inside of me until there were no words at all.

"Do you remember where I touched you, Kasie?"

I'm blus.h.i.+ng now and, knowing that he can see that only makes me blush more. I reach for the lapel of my robe. I don't open it, just run my fingers over it, carefully hanging on to the last remnants of restraint I have.

"Open your robe, Kasie."

"I can't do that, Mr. Dade. I need you to stay focused. I have to talk to you about business . . . security . . . public perception . . . there are strategies that we can implement."

His mouth curves into a small smile and I lose my thinly held train of thought as I remember what those lips felt like as they traveled up my inner thigh.

"Oh, I'm very focused. And trust me when I tell you that I am implementing a strategy."

"I'm not your project, Mr. Dade."

"No, you're my lover, Kasie. And I'm telling you to show me where I touched you."

This is the time to take my hands away from my robe. This is the time to turn off the computer. This is the time to hold everything together-white wine, not whiskey; quiet dinners at home, not wild nights in Vegas; no more shards of gla.s.s.

"Open your robe, Kasie."

I pull on the edges of my lapel, my robe opens just a little wider, and he can see the inner outline of my b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"A little wider, Miss Fitzgerald." He says the last words teasingly. He's mocking me, daring me. It's childish and should be so easy to resist.

I pull the robe open a little wider still. I look into his eyes and again I feel his power . . . but this time I feel it entering me. I can breath it; it fills me, touches me, like a caress.

With steady hands I pull the robe all the way back. It hangs loosely from my shoulders. I hold his gaze, all trepidation suddenly gone. I roll my shoulders back, my fingers slip down to my nipples that reach out to him, hard and ready.

"You touched me here."

And now we're against the wall of the Venetian and again I can feel him, I can wrap myself around his fierce energy.