by A. R. Torre
“She said the team hates me.”
I let out a slow breath. “Wow. Diving right in with the heavy punches.” She’d been there only a few weeks. Couldn’t she have eased in with the attack? “Hates? No. They don’t hate you.”
He slowed, the restaurant just ahead, and pulled over on the shoulder, putting the car into park and turning the ignition off. A cool breeze came, and a shiver of chill went through me. “I told her that I didn’t care if they hate me. I’m not in the business of being liked.”
But he did care. I knew that he cared. He just didn’t care enough to fix it. “Does she have a solution?” If she didn’t, he would have fired her. You don’t bring problems to my husband. You bring a problem and a solution. Otherwise, you’re useless.
“She wants to work with me on my style. And on my”—he paused and squinted, trying to think of the term—“personal development.”
“Screw that.” The words snapped out of me, and he glanced over, surprised. “You’re William Winthorpe. You don’t need an egocentric housewife from some San Francisco gutter telling you how to lead your company.”
He chuckled and found my hand, squeezing it. “You’ve been a little vocal yourself, Cat, about the way I’ve handled some things in the past.”
“That’s because sometimes you’re a jerk.” I twisted in the seat to face him. “And you’re blunt. But you’re also the smartest man in every room. I don’t want you to dilute yourself to try to salvage someone’s feelings. This is business. They’re all adults. They can take it.” My hand tightened on his. “And don’t compare me to her just because we both came from nothing. I know you—she doesn’t. I built Winthorpe beside you. She didn’t.”
“Hey.” He leaned forward and cupped the back of my neck, his hand stealing into my hair. “I’d never put you in a category with her. Nobody can hold a candle to you.” He pulled me toward him, and our mouths met, our kiss gentle at first, then stronger. More violent. I kissed him as if I were desperate, and he clutched me to him as if I gave him strength.
He was horrible to everyone, but not with me. With me, he was vulnerable and kind. Generous and loving. He plucked the good things, like petals on a rose, and kept them in his pocket, then showered me with them at night. No one was going to change that about him. Especially not her.
“I’m confused . . . ,” Kelly said slowly, her glossy purple nails picking through the Menlo prep school uniform catalog. She paused at one ensemble, and I shook my head. “I thought you were happy that she was there. I thought you said that William needed someone to keep morale up and improve the”—she lifted her gaze to the sky—“cohesion? Is that what you said?”
“I did, and I do see the value in her sticking Band-Aids on hurt feelings and putting inspiration posters up in the bathrooms, but I don’t want her screwing with William.” I spun the notebook in front of me around and tapped on a girl’s white tuxedo shirt with three-quarter-length sleeves. “This is cute.”
“Hmm.” She peeled off a gold sticker and stuck it to the item. “Keep looking. You don’t want her screwing with him or you don’t want her screwing him?”
I grimaced. “Well, preferably both. But the latter isn’t a possibility or I wouldn’t have her working there at all.”
She looked up from the catalog. “Spoken as a woman who hasn’t yet discovered an affair. Trust me, Cat. There’s always a possibility.” She moved aside a few pages, collecting the stack together. “Think of Corinne Woodsen. Her husband slept with that aardvark of a woman with the wooden leg.”
“It wasn’t a wooden leg. She had knee-replacement surgery. The brace was temporary.”
“Well, it wasn’t sexy.”
“Just because Corinne Woodsen’s husband can’t keep his hands to himself doesn’t mean that I need to be paranoid over a new employee of William’s. She’s married,” I pointed out. “I’m telling you. It’s fine.”
“Uh-huh.” She moved two fabric swatches to the middle of the table. “I’m going with these patterns, but in the school colors.”
I reviewed the options and gave a supportive nod. “Looks great.”
She moved beside me and thumbed through the narrowed-down list of options for the uniform shirts. “How much digging did you do into her?”
“Neena?” I shrugged. “I checked to see if they had applied for membership to the club.”
“And?”
“They toured it but didn’t put in an application. I’m guessing the initiation fee scared them off.”
“Hell, that almost scared us off.” Kelly laughed, as if the six-figure initiation fee had ever been a concern for her or Josh. “And where did she work before?”
“Plymouth Industries. Apparently they loved her there. I read the recommendation letter from Mr. Plymouth. He couldn’t say enough great things about her or how much they’d miss her.”
“Well, Josh knows Ned. Says he’s a total hard-ass, so she must have some sort of skill.”
“Which is why we hired her.” I picked up my bag, mentally done with the conversation. “Look, I love you, but I’m going to run.”
“Okay.” She kissed my cheek and gave me a warm hug. “We leave Thursday, so let’s grab lunch before then. And wait a minute.” Walking over to the bookshelf, she pulled out a thin binder and set it on the counter. Flipping through the pages of business cards, she paused, then worked a white card free of its plastic holder. “Here.”
I examined the gold-embossed print on the card. Tom Beck. Beck Private Investigations. “Is this the guy who followed Josh?”
“Shhh . . .” She glanced into the hall to make sure her teenagers weren’t around. “Yes. He’s good. Really good.”
“I’m not having anyone follow—”
“It’s not for William. Lord knows that man is head over heels for you. But if I were you, I’d have Tom do some digging on Neena. She’s your next-door neighbor and your employee. You should find out more about who you’re bringing into your life.”
“I don’t know . . .” Even as I wavered, I dropped the card into the open neck of my purse.
She shrugged. “Just keep his info and think about it. And if you do call, tell him that I sent you. He’ll take good care of you.”
I gave her a hug and tried to dismiss the idea of hiring a private investigator to look into William’s newest employee. He’d be furious. HR would have already done a criminal background check and drug test. William would accuse me of paranoia and snooping.
It was a crazy idea. But then again, what harm could it do? And how would he ever find out?
CHAPTER 10
NEENA
With the phone pressed to my ear, I rounded the far end of the lake and glanced at the Winthorpe building, the reflection of water and sky glimmering against its all-glass facade. The first floor was retail, the second Winthorpe Capital. Tech occupied the third and fourth floors, and the top was under construction—rumored to be the future home of Winthorpe Development.
Matt was in the third minute of a long and drawn-out story about propane-tank relocations. I cut him off as I entered the north section of the trail, and the view of Winthorpe disappeared behind the row of cypress trees. “I have to run. I’ll call you in a few hours. I love you.”
He returned the sentiment, and I ended the call and worked the cell phone into the side pocket of my bag.
I did love Matt. No matter where our marriage and relationship would eventually go, I would always love him—if for no other reason than the fact that he was heartbreakingly in love with me. I could screw William Winthorpe on the middle of Matt’s desk and he’d still take me back. Beg me to stay. Bring me flowers and believe that I deserved them. With that sort of unwavering loyalty and security, why wouldn’t I stray?
My first affair was so innocent. Lust plus opportunity equals sex. It was quick, dirty, and pointless, the excitement fading as soon as the man returned to his twenty-two-year-old girlfriend.
The next lasted longer. A series of midday meetings,
my enjoyment heightening as the affair grew deeper. When it ended, I immediately returned to the hunt, addicted to the tumultuous risk.
Matt’s younger and better-looking brother was next, and the close proximity fueled my arousal to new levels. After our first time together, he cried, dismayed at what he’d done—and I’d never felt so empowered. After all, what better ego boost than to know that a man had risked his most crucial relationship to be with you?
I watched as William Winthorpe rounded the bend in the trail, his head dropped in thought. He was a man of habit, and I quickened my pace, wanting to meet him before he moved past the services center that housed, among other things, a restaurant.
William was a man with everything to lose. The perfect wife. The perfect life. The reputation of the community, of his businesses, and of his charity foundation. Would he risk any of it for me?
Mark had been a feather in my cap. Ned Plymouth, a million-dollar payday. An affair with William Winthorpe would overshadow them both by leaps and bounds. At just the thought, my thighs tightened, my breathing shallowed, and I struggled to walk slowly, casually, as the distance between us shortened.
“Neena.” He came to a sudden stop. “What are you doing out here?”
“Needed to clear my head.” I glanced around, pleased to see that the path was empty. “The fresh air helps.”
He chuckled. “Yeah.”
I nodded to the sleek glass building beside us, a smaller version of the Winthorpe tower, and one that contained a small bistro. “I was actually about to stop in and grab something to eat. Have you had lunch?” I knew he hadn’t. His schedule, like everything else in his life, was precise. A long walk at eleven thirty, followed by lunch. Afternoon meetings, then home by seven. Tick. Tock. Every day. Was the monotony killing him yet?
“Not yet.” He glanced at the building, hesitating.
“They have a killer grilled-cheese sandwich,” I offered. “You have to try it.” I took a few steps backward toward the entrance and gave him a teasing smile. “Come on . . .”
“Grilled cheese?” He squinted at me. “I thought you were no carb.”
“I like to cheat every once in a while.” I winked at him and could tell the moment when his resolve wavered. The fun side always got to them. Dark and tempting was intriguing, but light and happy paired with breathless admiration was the strong cocktail that fed bad decisions. An unexpected combination of the two and I’d have him naked in my bed within the month.
He glanced at his watch, and I turned away, striding up the hill and toward the building, my best asset showcased to perfection in my three-inch heels. “Come on!” I called out, not giving him the chance to decline.
By the time I reached for the door handle, he was there, his hand on the small of my back, ushering me inside with the manners of a true gentleman. I bit the inside of my cheek and tried to hold back my grin.
My father once held a drinking contest with me. Death in the Afternoon was the drink. Getting to leave the bar was the prize. Winning was accomplished by continuing to drink until the other passed out or vomited. I was thirteen, and the bartender liked my tits. He told my father that on our third drink, and a meaty grope of them paid for our fourth. I vomited ten minutes later, my hair held back by that same bartender as his hands squeezed each tiny breast as if pumping them for milk.
Breast implants were one of the first things Matt paid for, my second augmentation and size upgrade footed by Ned. I had lost all sensation in my nipples from the surgeries, yet I could still remember the rough pinch of that bartender’s hands.
“Did you want to sit in the bar?” William followed my gaze, which was stuck to the bar, the memories of the drinking contest still raw in my mind.
“Ah, no.” I ripped my gaze away from the dark space and quickly nodded at a table by the window. “How about that one?”
“Works for me.”
We settled in, an awkward silence falling, and I forced a self-deprecating wince. “I’m sorry. I’m nervous.”
“Nervous?” He laughed, the rigid tension leaving his posture, and smoothed down the front of his tie. “Why?”
“I don’t know. You’re very powerful. And, quite frankly, brilliant. I didn’t realize how much so until I had a chance to see you in action, at the office.” I picked at the edge of my menu, then blushed. “It’s intimidating.”
“We’ve had meetings before. You never seemed intimidated then.”
“Well, I don’t know.” I laughed. “It’s different outside the office. No glass walls to hide behind.”
He smiled. “The walls were actually Cat’s idea. She liked the open feel that they created.”
“The open feel?” I winced. “I’m not sure that’s how the staff sees them.”
He raised an eyebrow in question.
“There’s just no privacy. It feels like they’re under a microscope.”
“They’ve told you that?”
“Yes,” I lied. “Several have mentioned it. I’m sure Cat meant well, but it’s hard to develop a feeling of intimacy and trust when everyone can see what you’re doing, all the time.” I met his eyes. “Don’t you ever want to . . . I don’t know . . . relax in your office? Kick off your shoes? Loosen your tie?” I let my voice grow husky, and he dropped the eye contact, his focus moving to his menu as his jaw tightened.
The waiter approached, and I sat back in my seat, letting William off the hook as we placed our orders.
He liked the grilled cheese. I could see it in the way he relaxed into his seat, a grin widening across his handsome face as he ordered a beer. The sun streamed through the window, lighting up our table, and I felt, for the first time since we moved into the Atherton house, deeper possibilities. He could fall for me. This could be more than just a game. This could be real. This could be my future, the one I’d been dreaming of. For a moment, I let myself sink into the potential scenario.
Vacations in Tahiti.
Second homes in Aspen.
A full-time staff, dedicated to fluffing my pillows and fetching my coffee.
“I’m glad we did this. You were right. The grilled cheese . . .” He nodded in approval, and I fought not to wipe a crumb off the edge of his mouth. “It was amazing. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve had a grilled cheese in a decade, maybe longer.”
I stretched, sticking out my chest as I ran a hand along my flat stomach. “I know. It’s the butter they use. It’s lethal.” The buttered bread was one of the reasons I’d be vomiting it up as soon as I returned to Winthorpe Tech. The number of calories in that sandwich would take three hours of intense cardio to burn off. But for now, I played the cool and carefree woman, grinning playfully at him over my own bottle of beer, as if twelve hundred calories weren’t justifiable grounds for panic. “Sometime I’ll have to make you my french toast. It’s hard to say that it compares with that, but . . .” I tilted my head. “It kinda does.”
“Well—” His phone rang, and he glanced at the display, then swore. “I’ve got to take this. Here.” Sliding to his feet, he hurriedly pulled out his wallet and withdrew some cash and placed it on the table. “I’ll see you back at the office.”
“Sure, I—” I abandoned the sentence as he walked away through the tables, the phone to his ear, his voice too low to hear. Was it Cat? Irritation burned through me at the abrupt interruption to our meal, to the first real conversation we’d been able to have.
I stood and moved toward the bathroom, the grilled-cheese sandwich already fighting its way up my throat.
It didn’t matter. I had plenty of time.
CHAPTER 11
NEENA
Every wife in this neighborhood was the same. All spoiled girls who grew up with Daddy’s money, then married Daddy’s friends, then popped out future heirs like a Pez dispenser stuck to open. Rich all their lives and absolutely unspectacular.
I deserved all this so much more than any of them. I stepped onto the Vanguards’ back porch and inhaled the scent of juniper and fresh-c
ut grass, scanning the backyard for a glimpse of William and Cat. I was getting close. Two years ago, we would have spent a Saturday afternoon staring at the television screen, but now we were at Josh and Kelly Vanguard’s going-away party, the invite as easily tossed out as candy from a float. Further proof that proximity was half the battle in this world. I elbowed Matt in the soft part of his gut as he reached for a miniature cupcake display. He pulled his hand back.
“No sugar,” I hissed. “And that’s Josh Vanguard right there.” I nodded toward the contractor, who was speaking to Perla Osterman’s husband. “Go introduce yourself.”
He went, wiping his hand on his thigh, and I flinched at the sweaty handprint it left. He hesitated on the outskirts of the two men, his thumb tapping nervously on the side of his slacks, and I fought the urge to shove him into their midst. While there were many things I loved about my husband, he was so socially timid. While I had pored over social media accounts and Menlo club membership rosters, learning the major players in Atherton, he had dragged his feet in even attending this party.
Josh Vanguard noticed him hovering and moved back, opening up their conversation, and stuck his hand out, introducing himself. I breathed a sigh of relief as Matt stepped forward and smiled, their grips connecting. I had coached him on Josh’s current projects and the possibility of a joint venture between him and William. If Winthorpe Development fully materialized, they would need site work and clearing. There would be a continual stream of dollar signs that could head in Matt’s—our—direction.
A boy in bright-blue swim trunks sprinted around me and launched himself into the pool, feet lifted high, arms outstretched. A future CEO or board member. He’d be a Stanford legacy, access his trust at age twenty-five, and probably marry one of the brats at this party. Inherit a turnkey lifestyle without ever understanding what true sacrifice was.
“It’s Neena, right?”
I turned to see a wife, clad in all white, a red scarf tied around her neck. She had the pixie haircut adored by women who were on the verge of lesbianism or had given up on pleasing their husbands. I plastered my smile into place. “Yes. Dr. Neena Ryder. And you are?”
