Little Black Dress

by James Patterson

  “My brother and I don’t run with the same crowd,” Nolan said. “He’s a gym rat. He even does MMA.”

  “Is that some kind of performance-enhancing drug?” I asked.

  Nolan laughed—which surprised me, since he seemed deficient in the humor arena. “It stands for ‘mixed martial arts.’ Basically it amounts to rolling around on the floor with some muscular, sweaty, and half-naked meathead.” He tucked his napkin into his lap as he shook his head in disapproval.

  Hmmm, really? Rolling around on the floor with a muscular and sweaty half-naked…

  “Jane?”

  “Oh—what?” While my mind had seized that image and taken an R-rated run with it, Nolan was apparently still talking to me.

  “I was asking if you liked the wine. I met the vintner last summer, when I vacationed in France.”

  “It’s wonderful,” I said. “I’d love to hear about the vineyard.”

  Nolan obliged me, as I’d guessed he would. Which meant that I was free to nod and smile…and to pay no attention at all to what he was saying.

  Instead, I thought about Michael Bishop.

  Actually, that’s not right. I thought about the afternoon itself: the heat of Michael’s hands, the tender urgency of his mouth, the sublime friction of skin against skin. There’d been no need to talk to each other because our bodies had known exactly what to do. Those hours, stolen from our regular lives, had been electric. I’d never felt that free before. That afternoon was a ten.

  Or at least a nine.

  I smiled to myself at the memory.

  Nolan, of course, assumed that my expression was for whatever boring, pompous anecdote he was currently sharing, so he began to talk more loudly.

  Let the cocky bastard think I care, I thought. As soon I see the bottom of this wineglass, I’m out of here.

  And I was.

  Chapter 8

  I edited Michael Bishop’s article on the New York City Ballet the following morning. It didn’t need much work; he was a great writer.

  He was an even better kisser, though. And a truly memorable fu—

  God, Jane! I shook my head to clear it. This was ridiculous. I needed to be thinking about Metropolitan’s next issue, not replaying the afternoon with Michael for the two hundredth time, my body tingling at the still-vivid scenes.

  I decided to take a walk; maybe the fresh air would restore my focus.

  Stepping into the summer sunlight, I donned my big Burberry sunglasses and inhaled deeply. New York was beautiful today—the sky a brilliant sapphire, the clouds like enormous downy pillows. It was lunchtime, and people spilled out of office buildings all along Park Avenue South: women in floral dresses, men in button-downs and linen pants or dark tailored power suits.

  I watched a cute, slightly scruffy guy fist-bump the doorman of his building, who grinned and said something that made the guy laugh. I could hear it from where I stood: a happy, infectious guffaw.

  I was drawn to it. And, okay, I was also drawn to the guy’s lean, athletic body.

  When he started walking toward Madison Avenue, I followed him. He wore a plaid short-sleeved shirt and skinny jeans, and he sported a tattoo on each forearm.

  I wondered if he had other, hidden ink and what it would look like.

  I imagined unbuttoning his shirt and running my hands across his smooth chest. I thought about what it would feel like to touch those strong shoulders. I was deep in a delicious daydream when he stopped short—and I almost collided with his back.

  I also nearly barreled into the pretty young woman who’d just come up and wrapped her arms around his waist.

  He kissed her passionately on the mouth, and, arm in arm, they went to have lunch.

  Or maybe they were hurrying off to have a nooner—which was obviously what I was looking for too.

  So much for the walk clearing my mind!

  But instead of heading back to the office, I kept walking toward Madison Square Park.

  The Shake Shack line was a mile long, as usual. The benches lining the pathways sagged with the weight of people talking, reading, and eating takeout.

  Not ten feet away sat a man on his lunch break, unwrapping a Shake Shack burger from its wax-paper sleeve.

  He had sandy hair and high cheekbones, and he reminded me of someone I’d gone to high school with—a guy we’d voted most likely to become a TV weatherman.

  He must have felt my gaze, because he looked up and gave me a curious half-grin.

  I almost turned away—but I didn’t. “You must’ve gotten in line at ten a.m. for that,” I said, nodding at his lunch.

  “Yeah, approximately,” he agreed.

  “So was it worth it?”

  He looked at his burger thoughtfully. “I don’t know yet.” He held it out. “Want to try?”

  “No!” I took a step backward, like he was about to force-feed me a sample.

  “It was a joke,” he said, grinning. “I don’t share my lunch with strangers, even hot ones.”

  “No, of course not,” I said, now feeling ridiculous. “That would be weird.”

  The irony didn’t escape me: I’d been sizing him up for a nooner, but I wouldn’t take a bite of his hamburger?

  He nodded. “I like weird, but you gotta draw the line somewhere, right?” He took a bite. “Mmm. It’s really good, though.”

  I sat down on the bench next to him. “Do you work around here?”

  He gestured toward a stone building on the north side of the park. “In that one,” he said. “You?”

  “Over on Park Avenue South,” I said. “I’m an editor at Metropolitan magazine.”

  “Cool, I have a subscription,” he said. “I’m in grad school. Philosophy. Currently making ends meet as a marketing writer for a pet food company.” He held out his fries, offering me a taste, and this time I took him up on it. They were hot, salty, and delicious.

  “Have you seen that one where the dog goes, ‘Your eyes are so beautiful. They’re like meatballs’?” I asked. “I love that.”

  He looked at me proudly. “I wrote it.”

  I widened my eyes at him. “You’re kidding. That billboard’s in my subway stop!”

  “Nope, not kidding,” he said.

  “You’re obviously an unsung genius of promotional writing,” I said. “Are you sure you want to keep studying Hegel or whoever?”

  He grinned. “I’m in way too deep to ponder that philosophical conundrum,” he said. “Which reminds me—” He glanced at his watch. “Shit, I’ve got to run to class.” He got up, somehow simultaneously hurried and reluctant, and then he turned back to me. “You’re a mad fox,” he said. “I would love to get your number. But I’m sorry to say I’m engaged.”

  I gave him my best vamp’s smile—which was also my first. “Are you sure your fiancée wouldn’t let me borrow you, just for an afternoon?” I asked.

  He looked shocked.

  “I’m kidding,” I said. “I don’t have sex with strangers. Even hot ones.”

  Not yet, anyway, I thought as I watched him walk away.

  This definitely wasn’t what Bri had in mind when she urged me to get back in the game. Because this, honestly, was crazy.

  But I didn’t want to stop.

  Chapter 9

  “How’ve you been, Jane?” Dr. Jensen asked as I settled into his overstuffed couch.

  “Oh, I’m good,” I said. “Everything’s perfectly fine. Nothing to report. Life’s totally, completely normal.”

  “Really? Well, I’m glad to hear that,” he said. His tone conveyed what he really meant, which was Tell the truth, Avery.

  But I still wasn’t ready.

  Did other women feel the way I did, though? Did they dream—and daydream—about getting it on, no strings attached? I really needed to know.

  Luckily, there was an expert in these matters sitting right across from me. “Dr. Jensen, you must get told all kinds of secrets,” I said.

  “That’s what I’m here for,” he agreed. “Why the
y pay me the big bucks.” He smiled.

  “Tell me about it,” I said, momentarily flashing on my none-too-large bank account. “I have a question for you. What do other women have to say about sex?”

  His eyebrows nearly disappeared under his hair. I’d surprised him again.

  “Look, sex used to be the only thing my friends and I ever talked about,” I explained. “Who’d done it, and who they’d done it with. But now we’ve all grown up, and no one ever mentions it. Is it because we’re adults and we’ve outgrown dirty secrets? Or is it just less exciting to talk about, now that we’re not doing it in the back of our dad’s station wagon? Not that I ever did that, mind you.”

  Dr. Jensen smiled thoughtfully. “What do you think, Jane?” he asked.

  I groaned. “I don’t care what I think,” I said. “I want to know what other women tell you.”

  He hemmed and hawed, saying something about confidentiality and psychology’s code of ethics.

  I looked at him slyly. “Maybe you can’t tell me because your clients don’t feel comfortable enough to talk to you about that kind of thing,” I said.

  That was Manipulation 101, and Dr. Jensen knew it. “My clients tell me everything,” he said.

  I know one who doesn’t, I thought. But I said, “Great! I want to hear about it.”

  “Jane, this is your time to talk about—”

  “If it’s my time, can’t I use it the way I want?” I asked. “Sorry I interrupted you,” I added.

  Dr. Jensen looked at me carefully and seemed to come to a decision. “You understand I can’t tell you anything that would allow you to identify another client. And everything I say is classified.”

  I snuggled deeper into the couch and mimed zipping my lips closed.

  He took a deep breath. “All right, Jane. You asked for it, you got it. One of my clients talks about wanting to have sex with someone other than her husband.” He paused. “And she wants her husband to watch.”

  “That’s a tough thing to bring up over the salad course,” I said.

  “I have another client who’s very wealthy,” he said. “She’s a patroness, and her life is one benefit luncheon after the other. Sex is only pleasurable for her if she’s lying on fur.” His eyes bored straight into mine. “Preferably lynx,” he clarified.

  “Because she’s so rich?” Kind of cliché, I thought.

  He shook his head. “Most of her life, she has to be as proper and poised as a marble Venus. The fur makes her feel both primitive and wild. It reminds her that she’s an animal, too.”

  I was against fur—unless it was on a living mammal—but that almost made sense to me. “Can you tell me a fantasy in more detail?” I asked.

  “Jane, again: this is your time to talk—”

  “I think it would be therapeutic for me,” I said. “Sorry, I interrupted you again.”

  He gazed out the window for a moment. Then he turned back to me and said, “All right. There’s a woman I’ll call Marie. She likes to imagine that she has bound her breasts and disguised herself as a young man. In this costume, she finds work on a transatlantic ship. When another sailor catches her bathing and discovers her secret, she’s terrified. He threatens to tell the captain unless she…pleases him. And so she does. At first it’s against her will. But then she starts to enjoy it very much.”

  “Interesting,” I whispered. This was a new one for me. Maybe I wasn’t the only sex semimaniac in town.

  “And then she ends up pleasing many of the sailors on the ship.”

  I felt myself blush. “That sounds…strenuous,” I managed.

  He said, “That’s just the tip of Marie’s iceberg.”

  “I’m listening,” I said.

  “I can tell,” he said.

  And for the rest of the session, I didn’t say another word.

  Chapter 10

  In sling-backs and my black Dress, I inched my way through crowded, neon-lit Times Square. It was slow going, because I had a giddy eight-year-old on either side of me.

  Grace, my niece, squeezed my hand happily. “I’m so glad you could come see Aladdin with us, Aunt Jane,” she said. “Daddy was supposed to, but then he had a meeting.”

  I turned and gave Mylissa a mild but unmistakable little-sister scowl. “You told me this little Broadway adventure was a girls’ night out,” I said.

  She glanced up from reapplying her scarlet lipstick. “What does it look like?” she asked.

  “It looks like I’m here because your husband couldn’t make it,” I said.

  “Ah, but you could,” she said, blotting her lips with a tissue as we entered the theater.

  “But—”

  “I mean, really, Jane,” my sister said. “Did you have something better to do?”

  I sighed. Among Mylissa’s many wonderful talents, there was also the unfortunate one of making me feel lame and inadequate.

  It wasn’t always this way: when I was married to James, with a two-bedroom in the Village and a new promotion at Metropolitan, my life had seemed enviable to her. It’d looked pretty great to me, too—until the day I caught James in our bed with Tracy, his ex, and everything fell apart.

  The usher led us to our seats, which were excellent. One of the perks of having a brother-in-law with gobs of money, I guess.

  Before the curtain rose, Grace laid her head on my shoulder. “Can we have a sleepover next weekend? Pleasepleaseplease?” she asked.

  “Yes, may we, Aunt Jane?” said Charlotte, smiling prettily. She was the older twin by five minutes, and she liked everyone to know it.

  I was flattered they wanted to spend the night in the city with me—and slightly chagrined that they, too, seemed to know I wouldn’t have other plans.

  “I love that idea,” I said—and I really did mean it. “We can make popcorn and watch movies and paint our nails, and in the morning I’ll make you blueberry pancakes with lots of syrup. Mylissa, what do you say?”

  Mylissa turned to her daughters. “Your aunt ought to be going out on the weekends, girls,” she said. “But she seems to relish her solitude.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Grace said.

  “It means she likes being alone,” Charlotte translated.

  “Yes, I do,” I said. “But I like being with you two much better.”

  Mylissa crossed her arms. “If you’d only let me set you up with Jordan Andrews, Jane, you’d have dinner plans,” she said. “Did I tell you he made partner?”

  I kept my voice low and even. “I know you’re trying to help, Mylissa. But like I said, it’s really none of your business.”

  “Fine, if you want to be alone forever,” she said huffily.

  I was trying to be a good aunt by agreeing to host her darling children, and she was making me feel like a pathetic spinster: that didn’t seem fair. But I kept my mouth shut because I didn’t want to disagree in front of Charlotte and Grace, who were happily taking bets on whether or not there would be kissing in the musical and if, next weekend, I would let them watch two movies or three.

  After a while, Mylissa turned to me and smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry,” she whispered over the top of Charlotte’s head. “I shouldn’t have said that about you being alone, and I’m sorry I didn’t invite you first tonight. I’m glad it’s you. Mike would just fall asleep.”

  I had to laugh, because she was right. Her husband worked an exhausting seventy hours a week: put him in a dark room and he’d sleep through the 1812 Overture, cannon fire and everything.

  “I’m glad it’s me too,” I whispered back.

  Chapter 11

  When we left the theater, it was pouring rain. Mylissa and the girls gave me quick hugs and then dashed off toward the parking garage. I was left standing on the corner, soaked to the skin already.

  It was impossible to get a cab in Times Square on a normal day—in a downpour, forget it. I’d have to make a mad dash for the subway.

  “Upper West Side?” called a voice. From the backseat of a ta
xi, a man beckoned to me. “If you’re going that way, we can share.”

  I squinted at him through the rain. He was in his fifties, with an open face and a deep cleft in his chin. He looked friendly, not to mention handsome, in a silver-haired, Richard Gere–ish sort of way.

  I smiled because it reminded me of that scene in Pretty Woman—except that he wasn’t driving a Lotus Esprit, and I wasn’t a prostitute.

  You’ve never slept with an older man before, Jane, I thought.

  Then: Keep your mind out of the gutter, Jane!

  “You’re getting soaked,” he pointed out.

  Getting? I thought. I already looked like a drowned rat, albeit a well-dressed one.

  “Last chance,” the man called.

  I dashed forward, shielding my face from the slanting rain with my knockoff Tory Burch tote. Sliding into the cab, I banged it against him, showering him with tiny, cold droplets. “I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed. “And thank you very much.”

  “No problem, I’ll dry,” he said good-naturedly. “You know, if you’d waited much longer, you probably could’ve swum home.”

  “It’s at least three miles! I’m not Michael Phelps,” I said, smiling.

  “You’re not? In that case I don’t want to give you a ride after all.” He grinned. “Hello, I’m Ethan Ross.”

  I shook his warm hand with my damp, chilled one. “Jane Avery,” I said. I let my hand linger in his for a moment before pulling it away.

  I gave the cabbie my address, and he drove wordlessly toward Eighth Avenue. The wheels hissed on the wet pavement, and the stoplights’ reflections sparkled ruby and emerald against the black streets.

  I felt much better now that I wasn’t being deluged. Now that I was sitting next to a handsome man with a bare ring finger.

  “It’s actually a pretty night,” I said to my cab-mate. “Assuming you’ve got a roof over your head, that is.”

  Ethan Ross peered out the window. “The city looks almost clean, so that’s a minor miracle,” he said.