Just One Night: The Stranger Part 7

"His hand falls to my leg and I s.h.i.+ver as it moves up and down . . . in front of all these men." She shudders and suddenly I'm self-conscious. I shouldn't be seeing this. I was not invited into this room full of men.

"Jax tells his friends that I am the most o.r.g.a.s.mic woman he's ever been with. He tells them he can make me come with a touch."

I close my eyes and turn my head. I'm not seeing Simone anymore. I'm not seeing Jax. I'm seeing Robert Dade, his hands sliding higher and higher up my inner thigh.

"He hands one of them his phone, asks him to record us . . . he even invites his friends to record it on their own phones if they like, so they can see me climax whenever they want. I'll be in their pocket, exposed for their pleasure."

I suck in a short breath. This isn't my fantasy but I understand it. I feel the cameras on me, feel the stares.

"The bikini is only tied together with pretty little bows placed on each hip. He unties the knots, lets them see me, and then, as they watch, as they film me, he touches me, moving his finger slowly then faster and faster . . . I can't control myself anymore. I'm writhing around in my seat as they watch. I let the fingers of one of his hands explore my depth as his other hand pulls my arm away from my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. And the men, they keep watching, keep filming as I come closer and closer. . . ."

Her fingers scratch against the fabric of the couch. I don't have to look at her to know that she is now completely lost in this reverie. But then so am I.

"One man comes closer, he sees everything, they all do and I know I shouldn't like it but I do. I know what Jax is doing is wrong, displaying me like this, touching me like this in front of all of them, but knowing that only makes it all more intense. And in front of their eyes, in front of their cameras I come . . . they watch and Jax makes me come . . . I come in front of a room full of men."

She and I open our eyes at the same time. "That's a fantasy," she says softly. "I would never do it. Not in front of Jax's friends . . . definitely not with all their cameras trained on me . . . but that's the joy of fantasy. There are no rules, no limits, no consequences, no judgment. Just irreproachable pleasure."

I sit with this for a moment, delighting in the idea that something so scandalous can be irreproachable when contained inside the mind. But then I am not so constrained.

"I slept with Robert Dade, more than once." Reluctantly I step out of the ethereal mood Simone has cloaked us in to acknowledge this reality. "There will be consequences."

"Yes," Simone agrees. "But sometimes consequences are good . . . even when they don't seem that way at first."

"I'm engaged to another man."

Her eyes fall to my hand. "No ring yet?"

"We found one. . . . Dave wants to see if he can get the jeweler to lower the price."

Simone's smile fades, the haze of recent pleasure slips away. "How many millions does Dave have in his trust fund? Four? And he's making, what . . . a hundred and twenty thousand a year at his firm?"

"About half that for the former, almost twice that for the latter," I say but quickly add, "he's conservative with his money. I like that about him. He's never reckless."

Simone brings herself into a more erect position, moving slowly like a woman approaching a potentially explosive subject. "Has he ever said the words, 'Will You Marry Me?' "

"That's not really the point-"

"Maybe not, but did he say them?"

I don't want to answer this question. It will paint Dave as cold, as cold as the statues Simone compared me to. But I came here for honest advice and so I force myself to give an honest answer.

"He said," I begin, falter, and then let the rest of the words spill out in a rush: "He said I think we should go ring shopping."

Again she nods, no judgment in her eyes, just thoughtfulness. "Did he talk about wedding dates?"

"We haven't gotten that far."

"Has he told his parents? Asked your father for permission?"

"Our parents don't know yet . . . but they all a.s.sume we'll get married eventually."

"You're not engaged."

"Simone-"

"Not by any definition of the word," she says, more forcefully now. "Maybe you will be, but you're not engaged now. Something is pulling you into this affair. Maybe it's your attraction to this Dade guy or maybe it's your fear of settling down with the wrong man."

"Dave and I have been together for six years. How could we have made it that long if we were so wrong together."

"Maybe he was right for six years . . . but will he be right for the next sixty? Your subconscious is telling you something . . . and your body wants to explore your options. You're not engaged yet, Kasie. Find out what this is with your fantasy man. Allow yourself time to explore. If you don't . . . if you just marry Dave without even indulging your alternatives . . . you could end up divorced. Worse yet, you could end up being duty bound in a marriage to a man your subconscious tried to pull you away from."

"You're trying to provide me with excuses for the inexcusable."

"If you marry Dave, if you smile at him and tell him he's the only man you want . . . if you look him in the eyes and tell him you're sure, if you tell him those lies while standing at the altar . . . will that be excusable? If you care about him, doesn't he deserve a wife who's sure she's making the right decision in marrying him?"

"But I'm lying to him now."

"You're making sure," Simone says between sips of her c.o.c.ktail. "You've been dating for six years, you're not married, you're not engaged, and you're not living together. If there was ever a time to explore . . . just to be sure, this is it. It's your last chance."

I know what she's saying is wrong. It's against every ethic I have. But her logic is so appealing, so sinfully freeing. That's the thing about sin; once you fully embrace it, you don't have to worry about doing what's right anymore. You can do whatever the h.e.l.l you want.

It's a slippery slope that I sort of want to get off.

Sort of.

"And if I decide I don't want to do it that way?" I ask, again lifting my eyes to the quiet dancers. "If I decide I need to let Robert Dade go . . . Simone, how do I do that?"

She exhales and slams the rest of her drink. All traces of the Roman n.o.ble are gone as she morphs back into the quintessential modern girlfriend I need. "I haven't seen Jax in three years," she says, "but I still have the magnificently twisted fantasies he inspired. I keep them under my pillow, in my pocket, tucked inside my bra. They're always within easy reach. You can keep this Robert Dade or you can let him go. But the memories and the fantasies are yours forever . . . there are some gifts that just can't be thrown away . . . even when we try."

CHAPTER 9.

THE ATMOSPHERE AT Scarpetta is light. High ceilings, neutral colors. Even after the sky's turned black, the dining room feels as if it's being filled with soft sunlight. It's what I need for this moment as I sit across from Dave. He's talking to me about work, about family, about rubies-did I know that you can no longer directly deposit income into Swiss bank accounts and expect to avoid American taxes? Did I know that his mother just got a new mare whose coat is the exact color of a patchy gray sky? Did I know that rubies were actually more expensive than diamonds?

The talk is light like the room. Among teasing reminders of the expense of his devotion he shares bits and pieces of his world with me never suspecting that I might be hiding bits and pieces of mine. Every word is spoken with the casual intimacy that comes with trust. And for a little while I forget that I can't be trusted at all.

But as the appetizers are replaced by entrees, and the entrees replaced with cappuccino and dessert, I find that acting is an exhausting hobby. How do those celebrities do it? How do they smile at their costars and recite their lines with all the a.s.signed emotion without once giving away hints of who they really are, the person beneath the character, beneath the stardom, beneath the image? How do they have the energy to keep that person tidily under wraps? I stir a white line of sugar into the froth of the cappuccino. We've fallen into one of our silences. I used to love this moment, the moment when you can sit quietly with the person you've chosen to be with without exchanging a word. It's a showy testament to our comfort with each other. But I can no longer sit with silence. Silence is the pathway to my darkest thoughts that have no place in this light-filled room.

"Dave." I whisper his name, afraid of what I'm in danger of giving away. "You don't just work with men at your firm."

"Of course not," he confirms.

"Some of the other lawyers . . . or your clients . . . are they beautiful?"

The question takes him off guard. He dips a small spoon into our panna cotta, making a little nick in its smooth surface. "I don't pay attention to things like that."

It's an odd response. You don't have to pay attention to see beauty any more than you have to think about air to breathe.

"Have you ever been tempted?" I press.

"No." The word comes out quick and so hard, it's almost bruising.

The truth never comes to anyone that quickly. People usually consider the truth before speaking it. We think about how to best phrase it and roll it out slowly in hopes of weaving a good story. Lies come easier.

No. It's a lie he didn't need to tell. We're all tempted now and then, right? The only reason to lie is if you gave in to that temptation. I should know. I feel an odd twinge in my gut, quiet jealousy that has no right to be there.

"Maybe just once," I say, testing the edges of the conversation, trying to find my way in. "Maybe you, just for a moment, noticed the way a woman's hair hung around her shoulders, noticed how a coworker occasionally licks her upper lip, maybe just once you thought about what it would be like to touch her hair or taste-"

"I said no." The lie is firmer this time. Not so much a bullet as a boarder fence. I can almost feel its unyielding surface as I try to press up against it.

"I'd forgive you," I say. My jealousy is growing but I like the way it feels, I like what it says about my feelings for Dave. "I want you . . . I want us to be human," I continue. "I don't want us to think of one another as statues anymore."

He looks up from the dessert, making eye contact for the first time since I veered us toward this precarious topic. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about silks," I say. I place my hand on the table, inch it forward, but he makes no move to take it. "I'm talking about the little flaws in a ruby that make it unique. I know you're not perfect. You know I'm not perfect. I was just hoping that we could stop pretending that we are."

"I know you're not perfect."

It's meant to be a slap in the face, his acknowledgment of my imperfection without any acknowledgment of his own. But I don't feel the sting of his words. They touch me differently. I see the unintended compliment. And I see the evasion.

"I'd forgive you," I say again. "Even if it was more than a temptation. Even if it was a mistake."

"I don't make those kinds of mistakes." And then he softens. He finally reaches for my hand and gives it a quick squeeze before releasing it. "Maybe there have been times when I've been a little tempted. But I'd never act on those impulses. I'm better than that, Kasie. You know that, right?"

I flush. This time no insult is intended, but I feel his superiority. He's better than that . . . which means he's better than me.

"I'm buying you a ring," he continues when I take too long to answer. "I'm tying my life to yours. There are no temptations worth recalling, I promise."

I run my finger around the rim of my cappuccino cup. It's a pure white, like the tablecloth, like the roses Dave bought me. "There's something I need to talk to you about," I begin. And I know I'm going to do it. I'm going to say the words, bring my sins into this brightly lit room where we can both see them clearly.

"We're tying our lives together," he repeats, but now there's a pleading laced into the phrase. "We don't have to dwell on imperfect moments. OK, maybe our past was a ruby." I look into his brown eyes. I see his silent request. "But that was the past. We don't have to talk about . . . what were they . . . silks? Our future won't have those. Our future can have the clarity of a perfect diamond."

The future never has any clarity. At best it's like that mare his mother just paid a fortune for-it's colored like a patchy gray sky. But as usual Dave isn't talking about the way things are. He's talking about the way he wants to see them.

And isn't that what we all do? We choose our religion, our politics, our philosophies, and we see the world in a way that fits within those chosen confines. And if certain glaring facts don't fit neatly into our belief systems, we just ignore them or see them differently. We make them fit even if it means we have to squeeze them into completely unnatural shapes.

Dave is a man with secrets. I don't know if they haunt him or not but I know he doesn't want to look at them, which means that maybe, just maybe I don't have to look at mine.

I smile and take a bite of the panna cotta. It feels smooth on my tongue and it tastes pure.

I'm beginning to understand why so many people like the simplicity of diamonds.

CHAPTER 10.

IT'S MORNING. THE office visit with Robert, the fantasies with Simone, the strange dinner with Dave: it's all in my rearview mirror. Just a big tangled mess of crazy that I'm ready to leave behind. Today is new and I'm feeling steadier on my feet. Yesterday I wasn't prepared for everything that was thrown at me . . . I wasn't prepared for my responses. Today I'm ready for anything . . . and now that I know the full extent of what that means, I'm a little excited, too.

I mentally go over my calendar. Asha's putting together a report a.n.a.lyzing Maned Wolf's recent foreign investments. Nina and Dameon have domestic while Taci's focus is on the effectiveness of recent marketing and PR campaigns. People are in awe of Maned Wolf but it's not at all clear that they trust it. I'm supposed to be looking at the big picture, trying to put the pieces together so I can give Robert Dade a list of recommendations of what should be done before going public and a time line in which to do it in. Of course they're just recommendations. The only worth they have is measured by the trust Robert puts in me.

Robert Dade is not in awe of me, but I do think he trusts me.

Just the thought of him is delicious. Two weeks ago I didn't know what it felt like . . . to be pressed against a wall, to be propped up on a desk, to be made love to on the floor of the Venetian. Two days ago I didn't have the mental image of me, in his office, on my knees. . . .

Two weeks ago, the length of a lifetime, I didn't know that you could feel completely vulnerable and completely powerful all at once.

The guilt creeps in, numbing some of the pleasure of my reminiscence. My angel and devil are at war again. The devil has framed my memories and is holding them up for my inspection, knowing that I want to indulge and ma.s.sage them . . . and ma.s.sage the man who made me feel these things.

But my angel . . . my angel is screaming. She wants the images to burn.

But shouldn't it be the devil who advocates the burning of memories? Roles are getting reversed. What's a woman supposed to do when her angel starts using her devil's tools?

What's a sinner supposed to do when all her devil asks her to do is face the truth, both of her actions and the way she feels about them?

Because the truth is that I don't regret any of it. I just want to regret it. I can't confess my sins in the spirit of contrition. Absolution is completely out of reach.

Last night Dave lied about never being tempted. Was there more he was lying about? Did his lies free me to explore my possibilities?

I shake the thought out of my head. "I'll just do my job," I say aloud. Surely that isn't wrong.

I go to my bedroom and open up my closet. A sea of dark skirts and trousers and light-colored blouses greets me. I'm instantly bored. Why don't I ever buy anything more lively? Who says I have to dress like a prep school librarian?

Impatiently I push aside garment after garment until I find the suit Simone gave me for my birthday last year. She had dragged me to her favorite boutique and thrust me into a dressing room before throwing a pair of gray pants and a matching blazer after me. The color felt natural but the fit was different. The pants clung a little closer than I was accustomed to. The curves of my legs, my hips . . . it was all there. And the jacket cinched at the waist, emphasizing my figure. The top had been too much, tight, black, sheer; when I stepped out into the store to look at myself in the three-way mirror, I realized exactly how sheer. The blazer prevented me from being truly indecent. And yet I did feel a little exposed as I stared at my reflection. I remember thinking I looked autocratic, l.u.s.tful . . . maybe even a little dangerous. A man came out of the stockroom, no more than twenty. I could actually feel his struggle as he pulled his eyes away from me. He had wanted to look longer. He had wanted to examine me with more than his eyes.

And for just a moment I had been tempted to take off the blazer. Would he have been able to turn his eyes away then? How would it have felt to have a stranger see me like that?

Well, now I knew the answer to that question, didn't I?

I had never worn it outside of that store. I had told Simone I wouldn't even as she handed the cas.h.i.+er her credit card.

But I would wear it today.

I found a top that was a little more appropriate, a black silk camisole. It was cut high enough to avoid any accusations of promiscuity yet the fabric against my skin had a sumptuous feel.

And then I take that sheer top, the one I know I can never wear, and fold it up in some tissue paper and put it in my briefcase. I don't know why. I just want it near me.

I stare at the woman in the mirror, her hair loose around her shoulders, commanding, sensual.

"I want to know you," I say to her.