by A. R. Torre
“Cat,” I said, extending my hand. Her grip could have cracked an egg, and I fought back a wince.
“Matt Ryder.” The husband beamed as he shook my hand. “Beautiful home you have here. This thing would survive an earthquake, if need be.”
“I hope it doesn’t have to.” I laughed and didn’t miss the way her arm curled protectively through his. An amusing act, given how much my husband overshadowed hers. “Thank you both for coming. The party is in support of a great cause.”
“It’s for the Center for the Performing Arts, right?” the man asked, his fair eyebrows linking together intently. On the right breast of his tuxedo shirt, there was a pale-golden stain. Chardonnay? Tequila?
I checked William’s shirt, unsurprised to see that it was spotless, my husband as ready for a photo shoot as he was a party. “That’s right. Are you familiar with Atherton? The center is on Middlefield Road.”
“We’re growing more familiar with it. In fact, we’ve put a home under contract just next door,” the woman supplied with an unnaturally white smile.
I stalled, surprised by the response. “You mean right next door? The Bakers’ old home?” Home was a nice term for it. It was the neighborhood’s resident teardown, a foreclosure that had spent the last five years dragging through the courts. If it ever came up for sale, I had plans to knock down the entire structure and replace it with an expansion to our pool area and gardens.
“Yep.” Dr. Neena Ryder’s beam grew even wider. “Matt had an inside track with the bank. He’s in real estate development.”
“Demolition,” her husband corrected with a self-deprecating smile that crinkled the edges of his eyes. I immediately warmed to him.
“So, you’ll be tearing down the house?”
“Oh no.” He shook his head quickly. “We can’t afford to rebuild, not to the neighboring standards. We’ll renovate, then decide what to do.”
Sinking a single dollar into that heap would be a waste. It needed to be bulldozed, the pool yanked out, and a fresh foundation poured. I smiled. “Well, if you ever want to make a quick buck, we’ll take it off your hands. I’ve had my eye on that lot for years. I’d love to expand our pool deck all the way to the edge of the view.”
“I appreciate the offer,” he said, running a hand through the sparse hair crowning his head. “But Neena and I are pretty set on the house, especially with Atherton’s proximity to her new job.”
“I can’t tell you how excited I am to work with Winthorpe Tech’s team.” Neena glanced at William, and I didn’t miss the appreciative linger in her eyes. Then again, there wasn’t a woman in town who hadn’t given my husband a second look at some point or another. His looks and charm were one draw, the dollar signs that kept multiplying beside his name, another.
“And what is your position exactly?” I glanced at William, trying to remember how he had referred to the hire. Something odd.
“I’m the director of motivation,” Neena supplied.
“I’d never actually heard of that before.” I kept my tone mild, not wanting to ruffle her feathers. “Is it in the personal-coaching sphere?”
Her lips thinned, an almost imperceptible adjustment that pulled at the skin around her mouth. “It’s not exactly coaching. I’m responsible for keeping the energy and motivation of the team high. I’ll work with the team to help them achieve their goals, overcome obstacles, and eliminate workplace issues that may hamper productivity. It’s amazing how small changes and shifts in a person’s life can lead to huge results.”
“Dr. Ryder comes highly recommended, from Plymouth Industries. We were lucky to steal her away.” William lifted his drink in the doctor’s direction, then took a sip.
“And you should have seen her parting bonus!” her husband said heartily, his head swiveling to follow a platter of crab cake bites that passed by. “Excuse me,” he said quickly, then darted after the waiter, leaving us alone with his wife.
A parting bonus? Did those even exist? I watched as Matt hustled through the crowd, calling out to the crab-toting waiter. “What are you a doctor of?”
“Mental health and psychological studies. I’m a PhD, not a medical doctor.” She brushed over the designation with a shrug, her wine almost sloshing over the lip of her glass and onto the white sheepskin rug—a 1940s piece we’d gotten in New Zealand.
“Well, it’s wonderful to have you on the team.” I smiled, and her eyes sharpened.
“Do you work for the company, Cat?” She glanced at William. “I thought you stayed at home and handled the, ah . . . foundation? Is that what it’s called?”
I laughed, and if she looked at my husband like that one more time, I was going to stab my crab-cake fork through her jugular vein. “You’re right,” I admitted sheepishly. “I don’t work for the company. But I do own half of the preferred stock of Winthorpe Technologies, same as William. So I’m heavily invested in its success and our employees.” Employees like you. I pinched my brows together in a regretful frown. “William, it looks like the Decaters are leaving. I promised her an introduction to you. Would you mind me stealing you away for a bit?” I turned back to Neena without waiting on William’s reply. “It was such a pleasure to meet you and Matt. Best of luck with the property next door.”
“I’ll see you on Monday,” William interjected, lifting his glass in parting. “Tell your husband it was a pleasure.”
Her eyes darted from William to me, and I could almost see the gears turning behind her blue eyes. Taking a step back, she gave a tight nod. “Thank you again for inviting us.”
I placed a possessive kiss on William’s cheek as we walked away, my arm tucked into his. We passed Matt, who was scurrying back in Neena’s direction, a fresh drink in hand. He beamed merrily, and I struggled to connect his friendly demeanor with her ice.
“Was it just me,” William said carefully, “or did that feel a tad territorial? I thought leading with your stock options was a bit on the aggressive side.”
“It was a wee bit territorial,” I admitted, coming to a stop along the railing, out of the cover of the veranda, under the brilliant night sky. Before us, the pools and lit gardens extended out like a glittery array of jewels. “I don’t like her.”
He groaned, pulling me closer. “Don’t say that. I’m drowning right now in grouchy doctors and engineers. I need someone to babysit them or I’m going to go postal and fire everyone.”
“Okay, don’t do that,” I instructed firmly, then smiled at the pained look he gave me. “I’ll try to like her, okay? I’ll be nicer.”
“Pull out that prom-queen smile,” he urged, lowering his voice. “Only no poison this time.”
“Ha.” I scowled at him. “Don’t even joke about that.” I’d spent years running from the Mission Valley High rumor that I’d spiked my prom-queen competitors’ drinks with laxatives. The rumor had hit William’s ear at my tenth high school reunion, spilling out of the drunk mouth of Dana Rodriguez, one of the diarrhea-ridden candidates who had peaked in high school and now clipped grocery coupons when she wasn’t driving three kids around in a Chrysler minivan. I had laughed and wrapped Dana in a hug, hoping that William would forget and dismiss the rumors. He hadn’t, and Dana had paid for her loose lips with an accidental electrical fire in her she shed, followed by a well-timed Great to see you again, hope all is well note on embossed Winthorpe stationery.
“Do I actually need to speak to the Decaters, or was that just a ploy to escape the conversation?” He placed his tumbler on the wide stone railing, and I watched as the night air ruffled his salt-and-pepper hair.
“It was a ploy, but let’s do it anyway, for appearances’ sake.” I started to head back into the party, and his hand wrapped around my wrist, tugging me toward him.
“Stay out here.” He cupped my face in his hands and stared down at me, studying my features. “I’m with the most beautiful woman in the world. Let me enjoy her for a moment.”
I looked up into his eyes and smiled. “I’m here for as long as you want
. In fact . . .” I lowered my voice and glanced back at the party. “Let’s ditch this place. If we hurry, we can get to that diner by Stanford that has the apple crisp you like. And if you’re lucky . . .” I bit my bottom lip. “I’ll let you feel me up in the car.”
He chuckled, and that bad-boy glint lit in his eyes. “What about all the guests?”
“The butlers will watch them. And Andi will emcee the silent auction.” I stepped toward the dark end of the balcony, where the steps led down to the gardens. “Come on . . . ,” I teased. “I know where they keep the keys to the Ferrari.”
He caught me just before I sneaked down the stairs and pulled me into his chest, kissing me deeply. I sank into the contact, my hand fisting the front of his tuxedo as I stole a deeper kiss.
There were men you owned.
There were men you borrowed.
And then there were men you took.
I would never let anyone take him from me.
CHAPTER 2
NEENA
There were four- and five-letter words for women like Cat Winthorpe. I stood in our bathroom and stared into the mirror as I plucked a bottle of moisturizer out of the cardboard box beside our sink. My crow’s-feet were deepening, despite the reassurances of my surgeon. I turned my head to one side and examined the lines in my neck, grateful when the skin rolled smoothly and naturally against my throat. No paunching. No pulling. I thought of Cat Winthorpe’s throat, the delicate bob of her chin, the perfect complexion. She had to be thirty-five, tops. Thirty-five and probably still got carded at the grocery store. Not that Cat Winthorpe went to the grocery store.
“What a night.” Matt stood behind me and fumbled with the bow on his tuxedo. His jacket and vest had been abandoned at the door, the items already hung back in their rental bags. “Some place, right?” He wheezed out a breath that smelled of alcohol, and I flinched at the visceral reminder it brought of my father. Matt’s clammy hands pawed at my waist, and I stepped aside.
“Careful with that bow tie,” I said sharply. “You already spilled something on the shirt.” They’d fine us for that stain, probably keep the rental deposit. Unlike him, I’d been careful. My designer dress still had its tags on. I’d be able to return it tomorrow morning for a full refund. I had seen the way Cat Winthorpe’s eyes had swept over the dress, critiquing and comparing it to the others. I had planned ahead to ensure that the brand was appropriate, the price range exorbitant enough. This evening had needed to go smoothly, and it had.
“I can’t get this damn . . .” He tried to look down at the knot, then swayed a little from the effort.
“Here,” I said, softening. “I’ll get it.” I turned to him, not missing the pull of his eyes to my cleavage, the push-up bra offering up my perky and perfect breasts, a recent enhancement courtesy of my last boss. I had been surprised by Cat’s small breasts—a lazy oversight in the maintenance category. In a few years, she’d probably ignore the slight bags that would appear under her eyes. The deepened wrinkles along her forehead. The sag of her skin beneath those underworked arms.
Her husband had certainly noticed my breasts. His gaze had lingered, even as his hand had curled around her waist.
Matt’s eyes glazed over, and he fumbled a limp hand across the top of my cleavage, his thick sausage finger dipping between my breasts as if he were checking the oil on a car. I quickly unknotted his tie and pulled the material apart, working open his shirt buttons with quick efficiency.
I reached back and undid the strap of my bra, letting my new breasts tumble free before him. Turning my head away from his bourbon-heavy scent, I twisted his cummerbund around and undid the cheap buckle. His breath grew shorter as he cupped and massaged the generous D cups, his touch rudimentary but acceptable.
“Tonight?” he gasped hopefully.
I considered the request. It had been weeks since we’d last had sex, the quick event occurring after Matt had, from out of nowhere, put an offer on the Atherton house. Granted, it was a horrible home. Ugly and with a choppy floor plan that was badly out of style, but still. For my cheap husband, it was a huge and unexpected step in the right direction for our social standing and my happiness.
“Yes.” I moved closer, as if in enjoyment of his touch. Matt had been a sexual disappointment early on, one that required me to take care of my own needs. Most recently, I had done so with the explosive but short-lived Ned Plymouth dalliance. I’d had high hopes for that pairing, and I frowned as I placed the cummerbund on the counter, thinking of the lost potential with my former boss.
Matt grunted, his mouth now sucking at my nipples with loud and frantic wet smacks of his lips. I undid his pants and pulled down on the zipper. “Let’s go to the bed.” I injected some husk into my voice, as if I were eager, and not just to get it over with.
On my back, with him above me, I thought of William Winthorpe. There was something dark and delicious about him, a temptation that had existed as soon as he’d introduced himself at my interview. William. There had been a tug in his tone, a tightening of the cord between us. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Gruff and sexual. He was a walking chunk of masculinity and instantly more alluring than any of my prior affairs.
William was, among the rich and successful men of Silicon Valley, the best. Top tier. The sort of man I should have gone after, had I not tied myself down to Matt right out of high school. Back then I had been so desperate to escape my father that I hadn’t understood my true potential. I’d thought I was winning the jackpot. A life with Matt had seemed so decadent at first. A new Mustang convertible. Our own home, gifted by his parents as our wedding present. A credit card with my name on the front and a three-thousand-dollar limit, the balance paid off each month, no questions asked.
I had needed security and attention, and he had given both to me. But as we’d moved up in the world, I’d slowly realized everything I didn’t have. Frankly put, the dream my husband had delivered wasn’t good enough. My needs had increased, and I was starting to become desperate for the life I didn’t have.
“Right there?” Matt panted, and I moaned appropriately, wrapping my legs around his waist and thinking of the heat of William Winthorpe’s stare.
CHAPTER 3
CAT
Eight days after the party, our new neighbors closed on the Baker house. I stood on our front balcony with a glass of chardonnay and watched as a single cleaning van traveled down their long drive, bumping over the cracks. In any other neighborhood, there would be knee-high grass covering the large yard, weeds clawing over the abandoned flower beds, vines inching up the brick. But we hadn’t paid fourteen million dollars to live next to an eyesore. I’d spent the last six years paying for weekly lawn maintenance on the abandoned home. I’d had Ted replace the front gate lamps when they had burned out. I’d wandered the property at the end of my morning walks and kept an eye out for rodent holes and standing water where mosquitoes would breed.
I’d also, unbeknownst to my husband, spent a great deal of time inside the home. It used to be interesting. Four years ago, before the IRS’s liquidation team swooped in and took everything, it had been a house full of memories and secrets. A life suddenly abandoned. Dresser drawers still open, a negligee set hanging half-out. The safe door open, the combination stuck to a Post-it on the inside wall, its shelves almost empty, a photo album cockeyed in the back corner. The Bakers had fled in the middle of the night, their Mercedes still sitting in the garage, their cell phones left on the kitchen counter. Tax evasion was the rumor in the neighborhood, though I found the more likely culprit behind neatly folded pillowcases in Claudia Baker’s linen closet.
Cocaine. Five wrapped bundles that weighed in at two pounds each, according to their bathroom scale. I found another ten in an upper cabinet in their kitchen, behind boxes of Frosted Flakes and Honey Nut Cheerios. I found another bundle ripped open in their office, two lines tapped out on the cover of a Rolling Stone magazine.
For months after the Bakers disappeared, I would duck between th
e line of bushes that separated our lots and roam their house. I pocketed a ring of keys that I found in their junk drawer and skipped over the window I had initially used, coming and going as I wished. I spent afternoons in the big leather chair behind John Baker’s desk, flipping through their files. I combed bank and credit card statements, fascinated by the personal glimpse into their life. I stood in Claudia’s bathroom, before her big, wide mirror, and carefully applied her lipstick and shadows.
She’d been an interesting housewife. In the drawers of their master closet, I’d found ball gags and blindfolds, furry handcuffs and phallic-shaped toys. I spent an afternoon sifting through her lingerie and naughty costumes. I claimed a mink stole and Vuitton clutch, along with several pieces of abandoned jewelry. I spent one morning stretched out on their bed, dressed in her clothes, listening to their playlist crackling through the overhead speakers. And one day, just a few weeks before the IRS came and took everything—I found the second safe.
This one didn’t have a lock. It was a fireproof box in a hidden floor compartment, underneath the faux Persian rug in their master bedroom. I’d been on my stomach, reaching underneath their bed, when my knee dug against a bump in the rug. I’d shimmied back from the bed and peeled back the rug, thrilled to discover the trapdoor. Excitement had hummed through me, my fingers slipping on the inset pull, and it had taken three tugs to get the door open. Inside, the iron cavity held a variety of empty money wrappers and a collection of crude porn. I had examined the construction of the secret compartment and considered installing a similar feature in our house. It might be a good place to put the thirty pounds of cocaine that I now had tucked in our attic, the parcels high and dry behind three rows of Christmas decorations, in a box labeled Dollhouse. There were, after all, things you never knew you might need. My mother had taught me that. Granted, she’d been referring to a heating pad that had been marked down at a yard sale two blocks from our home, but I had taken the advice to heart in more ways than one, and it had come in handy in a number of moments.
