Stepping in, I let my eyes wander around the room, which is empty apart from Hudson and Asher. A black leather sectional fills the space, and the floor-to-ceiling window opposite me has a view of the waterfront. The floor is covered with a plush gray carpet, and candles are scattered on the surface of the coffee table, filling the room with a soft glow.
Asher’s seated on the couch, reading something on his phone. When he catches sight of me, he puts it aside and rises to his feet. “You look nervous,” he comments, with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “We don’t bite.”
Of course you do. “This isn’t quite what I expected when you invited me to dinner,” I reply.
Asher gives me a searching look. “What did you expect?”
Any other day, I’d have bitten my tongue, but Derek Greene’s visit has made me cranky. “Well, this club looks like the kind of place where the mafia shoots the lawyer for knowing too much, while the dark-haired woman disposes of the body.”
Asher chuckles, low and smooth, while Hudson laughs out loud. “That’s very imaginative of you,” Hudson says, his eyes twinkling. “Sadly, nothing that exciting has ever happened at Residence. Asher and I are protective about our privacy; that’s all.”
I think back to Lara and Helen’s gossip, at the way the bartender at Nerve had flaunted her boobs in their faces. I can see how they might get tired of that. “Thank you for the flowers and the boxing gloves,” I remember to say.
Asher’s lips lift in a grin. He moves over to a side table containing an assortment of bottles. “Do you like champagne?” he asks, gesturing to a silver bucket.
My eyes widen when I catch sight of the label. The Krug Clos du Mesnil is a thousand-dollar bottle. Toto, we aren’t in Kansas anymore. “That’s too nice a bottle to gulp down like two-buck-chuck,” I mutter ruefully. Of course, I’m still going to down it like there’s a global shortage on champagne.
“Why do you want to gulp it down?” Asher asks. His eyes search my face, and he frowns, his voice softening with concern. “Wendy, are you okay?”
No, I’m not. My emotions are in turmoil. I’m trying to forget about the will reading. Damn my father.
I give them a little nod and take the glass Asher hands me, tipping the champagne down my throat. God, that’s good. The liquid tastes like a million drops of sun-warmed grapes dancing in my mouth.
Hudson sits next to me, close enough that I can feel the heat emanate from his body. “Wendy,” he says soothingly, placing his hand over mine. “There’s no pressure, I promise. Nothing needs to happen. You don’t need to drink yourself into a stupor to have sex with us.”
I give him a startled look. That’s why they think I’m drinking? “That’s not why I’m upset,” I mutter. “I received some unsettling news this evening.”
Asher settles himself down on the couch as well, across from us. “Want to talk about it?”
Do I? If Bailey, Piper or Miki asked me that question, I’d spill my guts, but I don’t know these two men well enough to confide in them. “Just a messed up family situation,” I say with a shrug. “It’s no big deal, really. I'm silly to let it bother me.”
A skeptical look crosses Asher’s face. “If you say so,” he replies. He leans forward with the bottle and refills my glass. “You hungry?”
My stomach growls at that moment, answering Asher’s question. Hudson rises easily to his feet, crossing the room in long steps. On a side table next to the booze, appetizers have been set out, cheese, olives, and cured meats, veggies and dip, and much more. Hudson fills a plate with food and sets it on the coffee table. “Dinner should be served in thirty minutes,” he says.
I reach for a piece of cheddar. “This place serves food?”
“Very good food,” Hudson replies. “It’s not quite at the level of your friend Piper’s restaurant, but Rinaldo Oliviera does a very good Brazilian-inspired tasting menu.”
I haven’t mentioned Piper to them. I lift an eyebrow. “You googled me?”
“Of course,” Hudson says readily. Asher’s sipping away at his champagne, watching me with unnerving attention. “Does that come as a surprise?”
“Not really.” My cheeks flush under Asher’s scrutiny. “I googled you as well.”
“What did you learn?” Hudson shrugs off his jacket and loosens his tie. He uncuffs his shirt and rolls up his sleeves, and I swallow as his strong forearms flex. Warmth floods my body, and I can’t tear my gaze away from his big, callused hands, caressing the fragile stem of his wineglass.
I drag my focus back to his question. “You were married,” I tell Hudson. “You got divorced last year.”
He stiffens imperceptibly. “What else?” he asks, his tone deliberately casual.
The topic of the divorce is off-limits, evidently. “You’re an architect. You’ve been nominated for the Pritzker Prize twice. You’ve been hired to build your third skyscraper in New York, the design of which is going to be unveiled next month.”
“Clark Towers?” He shakes his head, his lips twisting into a wry smile. “Unfortunately, we just lost that deal. It’s not public knowledge yet, so I’d be grateful if you kept it to yourself.”
I have to admit; I appreciate the gesture of trust.
“What about me?” Asher speaks up. “What did Google uncover?”
My smile widens. “Well, I did find out that both of you were featured four years ago on the Village’s annual list of New York’s most eligible bachelors. Number 10 and 12, if I remember correctly.”
That elicits a groan from both of them. “We’re never going to live that stupid article down,” Asher quips. “What else?”
I snag a cracker and spread some Brie on it. “Your billing rate is two thousand dollars an hour,” I say. “Which is pretty damn impressive. But that’s not what has me intrigued.”
“What does?” Asher stretches his legs out and leans back. He looks like a predator sizing up his prey, biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. That thought sends a shiver through me, and once again, I have to force my mind back to our conversation.
“What I really want to know is why you gave up on being a public defender ten years ago and became a corporate lawyer.”
His eyes darken. “There’s more money in corporate law,” he replies smoothly.
Another deflection. I don’t think Asher is telling me the truth. This is a very nice club, and Asher wears very expensive clothes, but I still think there’s something more.
“My turn,” he says. “You went to Yale Law on a scholarship, and you graduated in the top ten percent of your class. You had over a dozen offers with some extremely prestigious law firms, but to everyone’s surprise, you picked Johnson Nash Adams. So tell me,” he asks, his eyes resting on me. “Why does someone who could have worked at any law firm in the city end up becoming a divorce lawyer?”
“You found all of that on the Internet?”
He shakes his head. “Peter Reyes was in your class at Yale.”
Of course. Pete works at Doyle and Miller. I’d forgotten that. “Nice guy, Pete,” I say blandly. “Very driven.”
There’s a knock on the door, followed by a white-clad waiter, who wheels a cart into the room. He sets three exquisitely plated portions on the coffee table in front of us. “Charcoal-grilled octopus served with a cauliflower puree and vinegared peppers,” he announces. “Bon appetit.”
It looks delicious, and I’m starving. “You eat seafood, I hope?” Hudson asks. “Sorry, we should have checked if you have any food restrictions.”
“I eat everything,” I say frankly, flushing red as soon as the words leave my mouth.
Asher’s lips curl up in an amused smile. “Good,” he says. “Let’s dig in.”
The conversation flows easily over dinner. Hudson and I chat about architecture; Asher and I talk about mutual acquaintances. While we don’t move in the same legal circles, there’s a handful of lawyers that we both know. I discuss my latest case, telling them how Miki helped me find Lippman�
To my surprise, we also talk about our families and where we grew up. Hudson’s from Manhattan. It’s clear from his description of his childhood that he’s always been wealthy. Asher, on the other hand, is from Scranton, New Jersey. “I bounced around from one foster home to another,” he says when I ask him about his family. “My parents lost custody of me when I was five. They’re dead now.”
I must look astonished because he raises an eyebrow. “Not what you expected, Wendy?”
I can’t lie. “No,” I tell him. “You wear the wealth well. You look like you were born to it.”
He laughs. “Not if you talk to Hudson’s friends on the Upper East Side,” he quips. “They’re all discreetly fascinated by me. I’m the bad boy they want to bed.”
“You don’t sound bitter by it.” I grin at him. “Sounds like you use your reputation to your advantage.”
Hudson laughs openly at Asher’s expression. “It’s very refreshing to see someone mock Asher,” he comments. “What about you, Wendy? Where are you from?”
“Fredonia,” I reply with a shudder, thinking of the small town where I grew up. “And I wanted to escape it as soon as I could.”
“Do you still have family there?” Asher asks.
“My mother.” Before they can ask, I blurt out, “My father wasn’t around growing up.”
I don’t want to think of Paul Hancock right now. Thankfully, they don’t probe.
My anger has faded over the course of the excellent dinner. I’ve just finished eating a fantastic mango crème brulee, and I want to retain the warm glow I feel. The meal and the champagne have relaxed me and loosened my tongue.
“So, Wendy.” Hudson gives me a look that I can’t quite decipher. His voice lowers, and I lean toward him almost instinctively. “I know what you do for work. Tell me, what do you do for pleasure?”
I can feel my cheeks flood with color. “Pleasure?” I ask, unable to meet either of their gazes. There’s a distinct tremble in my voice, and the heat that vanished because of Derek Greene’s visit comes roaring back in a blaze. “Not a lot. I’m not as exciting as the two of you.”
“Really?” Asher looks unconvinced. “Three of your close friends are in ménages. What about you?”
I shake my head mutely.
“You’ve never been tempted?” Hudson murmurs.
“In my fantasies, maybe,” I whisper.
“But not in reality.” Asher gets up to refill our drinks, and when he sits back down, he settles next to me. I’m now sandwiched between the two of them. “Why not?” He brushes a strand of my hair back from my neck, and his fingers linger over a vein beating in my throat.
I bite my lower lip nervously, but don’t pull away. “I don’t understand it,” I confess. “I don’t understand why you share women.”
Asher and Hudson exchange glances. Hudson’s fingertips brush my forearm, and I shiver again, goosebumps rising on my skin. “I don’t think of it as sharing,” he says, his voice pitched low. “I think of it as giving pleasure. One orgasm after another, until your legs tremble and you think you might never be able to stand again. Until you can’t remember your name, until every bit of need is replaced by fulfilled desire. Until you are replete, satiated.”
My breathing catches at the heat in Hudson’s eyes. Asher’s hand lifts to my hair, and he starts pulling pins loose. “Do you ever give in to your fantasies, Wendy?” he says, his breath hot against my ear. “Do you ever let your hair down?”
The pins fall to the floor, the sound muffled by the weave of the carpet. I inhale sharply, my fingers clutching at the stem of my glass for strength as Asher’s fingers run through the strands of my hair. “What are you doing?”
Desire is in the air. Desire, with a hint of danger. These men are not in my league. I should be sensible; I should gather my belongings and run before I’m tempted to do something stupid.
“Kissing you,” Hudson replies simply. Then his lips crash down on mine.
The need I’ve held at bay all night blazes free. The kiss is gentle at first, giving me time to pull away, but I don’t want to. I groan, parting my lips, leaning into him, giving into my desire. His tongue slides into my mouth. Through a daze, I feel Asher tug the champagne flute from my grip, and then his mouth trails hot kisses at the back of my neck.
The hardness of their bodies blanketing mine causes my head, already spinning from the champagne I’ve consumed all night, to whirl and gyrate in dizzying circles. I close my eyes and give in to the moment. Hudson’s hand—or is it Asher? - is on the back of my neck, tugging me closer. I feel another touch on my shoulder, and fingertips glide, maddeningly slow, down my neck, to rest at the valley between my breasts. “This dress,” Asher mutters, his tone thick with lust. “All night, every time you’ve leaned forward, I’ve been able to see your bra.” His fingers ghost over the silk. “It’s a very sexy view.”
“Please…” I breathe, almost overwhelmed by the dazzling sensations that explode over my body at his touch. My vibrator, handy though it is, can’t do this. “More…” I shift my legs, and my heels brush against the coffee table. An empty bottle of champagne falls to the floor with a dull thud, the thick carpet cushioning the drop and preventing the glass from shattering.
But the sound cools their lust. The two men exchange glances and pull back reluctantly. I blink, confused at the sudden change in mood. They’re aroused; I can tell. Their cocks are hard and thick, the outline clear through the fabric of their pants. Why have they stopped?
“Wendy.” Asher’s voice breaks the silence, regret etched on his face. “I want this. God knows I want this, but…” His voice trails off, and he picks up the bottle from the floor, setting it down once again on the table in front of us. He gestures to the four empty bottles of champagne. “You’re upset. You’re more than a little drunk. We shouldn’t take advantage of you.”
I’m not that drunk. It feels like I’ve been drenched by a bucket of ice-cold water. Yikes. I’m such a fool.
“Listen to me.” Hudson puts his finger on my chin, tipping my face up. “We’re trying to do the right thing. Have dinner with us on Friday, please.”
Friday is the day of the will reading. That thought is sobering. “Yes.” I accept before I change my mind and do something sensible. I won’t let Paul Hancock interfere with my life from the grave.
Asher smiles warmly. “Before dinner,” he suggests, “would you like to go to our boxing gym?” His eyes twinkle. “What do you say, Wendy? Want to break in those gloves of yours?”
God knows that after the will reading, I’m going to need to punch something. “I’d love to,” I reply. “But I’ve got to warn you. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Asher chuckles. “You’re a divorce lawyer. You already know how to fight. You’ll catch on quickly.”
They call a cab and accompany me home. They walk me to my apartment and wait for me to fish my keys out and open the front door. Asher’s a corporate lawyer, I think, as they prepare to leave. Ask him for help on Friday. Derek Greene’s warned you that you’re going to need a lawyer.
I stay silent. Asher and Hudson appear trustworthy. But I’ve never yet trusted a man enough to be vulnerable, to ask for help, and the habits of a lifetime aren’t changed easily. I’ll manage on my own.
8
Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.
Buddha
Asher:
Thursday afternoon, Vivian buzzes me. “You have another unscheduled visitor,” she says. “This one’s a cop. He says it’s about Mr. Engels.”
“Of course it is.” Three days with Levi at my place and cops are already visiting me. I wonder what I have to look forward to in a month. “I’ll see him now,” I tell her. “Can you delay my three o’clock meeting?”
A large man with graying hair and black rimmed glasses enters the room. “Sorry to bother you without an appointment, Mr. Doyle,” he says, reaching forward to shake my hand. “I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I’d drop by. My name is Patrick Sullivan.”
“No problem,” I reply, waving him to a seat. “What’s this about?”
“You’re probably wondering who I am,” he says. “I’m Levi Engels’ parole officer.”
“Is Levi in trouble?”
The cop shakes his head. “Not yet,” he says heavily. “Look, can I be honest with you? Deep down, Levi’s a good guy. His heart is in the right place. But every time he gets out of jail, he starts hanging out with Beecham’s gang, and sooner or later, he gets into trouble.”
I fish a couple of bottles of water out of the refrigerator and hand him one. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I’m counting on you to keep an eye on him,” he says. He gives me a serious look. “Word on the street is that Lloyd Beecham is planning a big heist.”
“Levi’s a grown man, Mr. Sullivan,” I tell the cop. “I can provide him a place to stay, but that’s about the limit of what I can do. I can’t keep him from his friends.”
“This isn’t just about keeping Engels out of jail, Mr. Doyle.” Patrick Sullivan leans forward and fixes me with a piercing gaze. “This is about keeping him alive. You see, Beecham doesn’t know it, but the warehouse he’s thinking of robbing belongs to Mikhail Vasiliev.”
Ice trickles down my spine. Mikhail Vasiliev is the head of the Russian Bratva. He’s the most dangerous man in the New York Metro area.
“I see from your reaction that you know who Vasiliev is, Mr. Doyle. Then you know how serious the matter is. There are consequences to stealing from the mafiya.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Watch Levi,” he says. “If you find any sign that he’s slipping back in with Beecham,” he slides a business card across my table, “contact me right away.”
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