by Thea Devine
“MJ—” His voice was hard, harsh, commanding.
“I’m with someone else,” she said bluntly.
“With? Meaning what?”
“I’m his mistress.”
“Like you were with me?” he said aggressively.
She had to end this. Obviously it stuck in his craw that she’d left of her own volition and he’d had no control over that. Now he was trying to control this moment, perhaps trying to get her to admit that she still wanted him.
“More than the way I was with you,” she said curtly. “More of everything exactly the way I like it. Good-bye, Dallan.”
“MJ!” His voice was tense with suppressed fury. She turned away abruptly and dashed across the street, knowing he was watching her. The quickest escape was a cab.
A moment later she hailed one, unaware that he had grabbed one, too.
Delia paced back and forth in a fury, although the practical side of her wondered why she was so angry. She wasn’t invested in him. She didn’t care about feelings, or how often he had sex with her.
So what’s your problem? He didn’t swear sexual loyalty to you.
It just seems like such a violation—his other life intruding into my life.
No, it didn’t. You were the one intruding in his pocket.
Enough. Call Brooke. She’ll figure out how to cope with this.
“So here’s the problem,” Delia said three hours later, over a plate of raviolacci, sun-dried tomatoes, and goat cheese. “No—if I start telling you, I’ll lose my appetite.”
“Okay,” Brooke said, “eat first, regurgitate later.”
“Ewww, yucky visual.” Delia looked at MJ, who was picking at her tuna and balsamic salad greens. “MJ, wake up.”
“I’m going to be lousy company tonight.”
“Not after you hear my sad story,” Delia assured her. “Come on, eat. We’ve all got shore leave for a few days, right? We don’t get much time together, so let’s enjoy it.”
“You’re right,” MJ said, heaving a huge sigh.
“Oh, brother,” Delia muttered. “Well, I’m here to eat.” She dug in, and so did Brooke, who had ordered the double-cut veal chop.
“All right, the shrink’s office is open,” Brooke said finally. “But let’s order coffee and dessert first. We deserve dessert since we’ve all been abandoned for the holidays.”
“Seduced and abandoned,” MJ murmured sotto voce, and said suddenly, “I saw Dallan today.”
“Jeez Louise—how?” Delia demanded.
“I went to the old neighborhood, and you know what? The effing bastard rented my old apartment.”
“Shut up. Why the hell would he do that?”
“I don’t know, but it was weird in a really bad way. He said it was for business. I told him flat out I was someone else’s mistress and that my lover was more to me than he ever was.” She heaved another sigh. “God, what a stupid thing to do.”
“So why did you?” Delia asked.
“Because…oh shit, I’m going first? I thought this was about your problem, Delia.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“No, you go first.” MJ’s expression was stubborn.
“All right. Well, you know that my attitude about this mistress stuff is pretty much take it or leave it. And I was never curious about Sonny’s wife, his family, any of that. But the other night I found something, and it upset me. And I don’t understand why.”
“What did you find?” MJ asked.
“Little photographs…”
MJ made an odd sound.
Delia went on, “Three photographs of a particular body part—”
Brooke’s cup crashed to the saucer.
“Nipples,” MJ whispered, “right? Three different little pictures of some other woman’s nipples.”
“How did you know?” Delia demanded.
“I found pictures like that, too.”
“Shit!” Brooke’s voice was shaking. “The bollocking son of a bitch!”
“What? What?” Delia demanded.
Brooke could barely get her voice in control, or her fury. “I found something, too.”
Delia looked at her oddly.
“A heart charm suspended from a circular wire.”
“What?!”
There was a hard moment of silence and then Brooke spat out, “That effing shithead was fucking all of us!”
“No!”
“How? No! Not Harold—”
“Oh, you don’t think the legendary Thane Bohansson couldn’t have alter egos? That son of a bitch! That frigging son of a—he was fucking all of us!” She slammed her fist down on the table. “When did that bastard find time when he was with me Tuesday and Thursday…and mornings and nights in between?”
Delia looked shell-shocked. “Friday and Sunday for me.”
MJ whispered, “Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday.”
“Three days? He gave you three days? That frigging horny rat bastard.” Brooke stood abruptly. “I can’t frigging believe this. We’ve been together six months, he’s fucking me to oblivion, and he’s fucking my best friends behind my back?” She pulled out a handful of bills and threw them on the table. “God almighty. You all should have known…”
“Oh, yeah, Sonny Hanes and Harold Hanson sound a lot like Thane Bohansson,” Delia intervened, trying to keep some calm. “How the hell could we have known?”
“Hell-O—Thane…Hanes—Hanson, BoHANSSON. Well, to hell with all of you and to hell with him. Don’t ever call me again.” She stalked out of the restaurant.
MJ bolted to her feet, tossing her share of the bill onto the messy pile of money. “Harold loves me,” she hissed. “He’s not Thane Bohansson, and I never want to see you again, either.” She stalked off, too.
Delia stared at the money, stared at the empty chairs, and tried to get a handle on what had just happened.
Thane Bohansson had truly screwed them all over—and he probably didn’t give a shit about it.
But…the pictures. How did Brooke know about the pictures? She hadn’t been shocked. Because…because those were her nipples in the photographs.
She called Brooke that night.
“I’m not talking to you,” Brooke snapped and flipped off her cell.
Damn. Delia tried MJ.
MJ didn’t answer.
She called Brooke again. “This is stupid,” she spit out before Brooke cut her off without a word.
Brooke was just going to let their friendship slip away because of a stupid male?
She tried calling again.
“Brooke—”
“Don’t call me.” Blip.
Damn. She rang MJ again.
“I’m going to kill him,” MJ breathed into the receiver. “Don’t ever call me again.”
Jeez, was she the only one with a level head here? They were mistresses for God’s sake. They were conveniences, receptacles, adornments—so why were Brooke and MJ acting like he’d taken some unbreakable vow to be faithful? He was breaking his own marriage vows, for God’s sake; how could they be shocked and resentful that he screwed around on them?
The bottom line had always been what he was willing to put out in exchange for them putting out. Which was considerable. Everything else was irrelevant.
But her live-and-let-live philosophy was sorely tested late that night when a body fell down heavily next to her on the bed.
Half asleep, she almost called him Thane, but she caught herself.
“Sonny? What—? I thought—”
“Don’t think,” he muttered thickly. “Spread your legs.”
She spread her legs and he poled into her, into the hotbox that he owned and paid for.
“I’m a regular Santa tonight.” He flexed his shaft. “I like giving presents…” He buried his face in her neck and licked the curve.
It took all her control not to freeze. Santa, delivering flyby fucks?
Just enjoy the sex. Forget about the rest.
It was the dead of n
ight and Brooke awakened with a start. Someone was feeling her up, a hot finger probing for her clit, and a hot mouth closed over one nipple.
Shit shit shit—what do I do now?
He grew insistent with his caress, seeking her deeper. “Nipples!”
She couldn’t pretend to be asleep now that her body was fully awake and disgustingly aware and responsive. “Thane!” She nearly choked on his name.
“Santa’s in the house, and he’s hungry for nipples.”
She swallowed hard. Deny him? Do as he said?
He flicked on the nightstand lamp and Brooke looked up at him kneeling over her. He was engorged, his eyes a little glazed, and maybe he was a little drunk.
“Dance for me, Nipples.”
Does MJ dance for you? Does Delia?
This was no time to be weighing her Midwest morality against her mistress mentality.
He burrowed another finger into her cleft. “Now, Nipples.”
She danced, using every belly-dance move she could summon up half asleep. He’d paid for this private performance, after all, and if he got a lap dance later from Delia, well, he’d paid for that privilege, too.
His own damn private harem.
As she danced, he stroked himself and stoked her until ripples of hot pleasure slithered through her and spilled onto his fingers.
He pushed her down onto the bed. “You’re the only one who does it for me.”
Only one of how many?
Don’t go there.
“Take it, Thane,” she whispered. “My Christmas present to you.”
God, I hate myself.
It wasn’t Harold. It couldn’t be Harold. MJ kept telling herself that, though it didn’t reassure her.
God, she missed him. It was Christmas Eve, and she wanted him desperately. She was angry at herself for going to her old neighborhood, despised herself for prying into Harold’s pockets. And she would not allow that abortive dinner last night to destroy her peace of mind.
“Surrendra.”
Was she imagining his rasping voice? It was so early in the morning, maybe three o’clock. She struggled up onto her elbows. “Harold?”
“It’s Santa, baby, here with his bag of goodies…”
Oh, goody—
She was sore when he left before dawn. He had used her body ruthlessly, in the most forbidden places that brimmed with unexpected, explosive pleasure. This time he had done things to her that were so off the charts, so unspeakably pleasurable, that the fact it was Christmas slipped away from her as she wallowed in the reverberating sensations.
I’m the one, and he’s not someone named Thane or Sonny, and whenever he wants my body, I’m his to do anything with that he desires.
Her cell rang sometime in the morning. She idly picked it up, thinking it might be Harold. But no—nosy Delia.
Do not want to talk to you ever again, she tapped in text message mode and sent it. There. Now it would be just her and Harold.
Christmas morning.
Delia cooked. It felt homey to be cooking, even alone, on Christmas Day. She wanted to invite Brooke to come over, but Brooke wasn’t answering her cell. MJ was a lost cause altogether.
She made a roast chicken, stuffing, gravy. She baked a carrot cake with cream cheese icing, a whole big sheet of chocolate chip cookies. She made coffee in her expensive Bunn machine. And then she sat at her table, one person at her dinner for six, staring out the window at the falling snow and wondering if she had fallen too far for redemption.
Christmas morning.
A long time ago in the big house in Pelham, Christmas had had the veneer of a joyous family holiday. But no more: Thane’s attitude was pretty much one foot out the door.
Of course Egan and Alaina always made the best of it, for her sake.
But Christmas Day was just the four of them together, opening lavish and usually meaningless presents.
Rae had it running like clockwork so there would be no gaps, no awful silences. At nine o’clock, everyone would have coffee in the small family room—her room, the cozy room that overlooked the loggia and the Sound. There, the Christmas tree was set up, music would be playing softly, and they would sit for an hour and pretend they were a cohesive and loving family.
Could she pretend today? Knowing what she knew?
She put on her Christmas Day robe, beautiful ruby-colored satin with antique lace at the collar and cuffs, and went down the hallway and knocked on everyone’s doors. Then she went down to the kitchen.
“Coffee’s ready, ma’am. And Danish, toast, muffins, eggs, sausage, and home fries en buffet, as you requested,” this year’s chef reported. The resident chef prepared the same breakfast buffet every year, even though Rae tended to change chefs yearly, depending on her level of irritation with life.
“Thank you.” This chef had been with them something like six or seven months, and she had been wondering whether to let him go. But that was a decision for another day.
She heard noises upstairs, her children—children no more—scrambling to be the first downstairs.
That was what her Christmas was all about.
She pushed open the door to the family room, to the stunning vision of the tree, highly decorated and glowing softly in the dim light, the soft music already playing as she had instructed, the scent of coffee from the side table set up with breakfast goodies, to the pile on the floor of…of…
She screamed. And couldn’t stop screaming. She heard footsteps, she heard Egan’s and Alaina’s voices—heard someone call the police.
Omigod, omigod. Thane.
She screamed his name as they led her out of the room, her perfect room, her perfect Christmas, and her perfect husband dead on the floor.
Chapter Seventeen
The news broke that night.
Delia decided to watch TV, since there wasn’t much else to do when you were all alone Christmas night. She settled onto her pillow-piled bed with coffee, cookies, and the remote.
Brooke turned on the TV just to have noise in the apartment; the comforting presence of sound made her feel less alone.
MJ turned on the TV when she realized that all her pining for Harold would not bring him to her on a night when he obviously had family obligations.
CNN had it first. This just in: media magnate Thane Bohansson was found dead in his home Christmas morning…
They’d found a picture from very long ago, maybe twenty years.
MJ screamed, because it was Harold.
…Thane Bohansson, rumored to be the power behind the powers that be, the influential owner of hundreds of media outlets, newspapers, cable stations, and satellite radio, was found dead this morning in his home—
A picture of a stately mansion on the Long Island Sound, taken from the water, flashed on the screen.
—by his wife. The family was in residence for the holidays—wife Rae; son Egan, a lawyer and chief operations counsel to the corporation; his daughter Alaina, an artist—
Their pictures on screen, one after the other: the elegant wife, as gorgeous as any mistress; his son, handsome, with just a hint of his father’s jaw and eyes; the daughter, the image of the mother.
—and a skeleton house staff. Police not ready to call it homicide. Autopsy scheduled. Funeral arrangements to be announced by the family.
A family that Thane had chosen to disrespect and ignore, with his stable of sex dolls, Delia thought.
The legendary Thane Bohansson. The ruthless Thane Bohansson. The obsessively elusive mogul who owned the media…
His wife had no inkling of his secret inner cravings, MJ thought—the cravings in him that only I serviced. How can I bear it? What am I going to do?
What will happen now? the pundits demanded. So much at stake. Is Egan Bohansson competent to take the reins? And what about his wife?
All the things Brooke had never wanted to know about him were now shooting full blast across every network, for all the world to chew on. The social register life, the cars, the servants,
the appalled neighbors.
No one had seen anything; the neighbors were aghast something like this could happen. They told whoever would listen that Egan was a partner in the prestigious Westchester law firm that was counsel to his father, that Alaina was an artist in Manhattan, that they were good kids, devoted kids.
That Rae Bohansson was active in the community; that Thane sat on the boards of local organizations and was an elder of the church. They were convivial people, charitable people. They did not appear to be estranged.
But how could that be? Delia wondered, watching the coverage. How could he have kept up with family and community obligations and still have the time for three full-time mistresses?
She feared that was the thing that was going to come bubbling up, erupt to the surface, and wash them all in the toxic muck of public exposure.
She wanted more than anything to call Brooke and MJ, but neither was talking to her.
I have nothing.
The sudden thought stunned her, because for these six months, she’d sincerely believed she had had everything she wanted—for now.
But what none of them had seen was that Thane had isolated them in a golden cage, cutting off jobs and friends with his demand that they devote all their time to him.
They’d never thought about what might happen if there were no Thane.
And now they had nothing—not even each other. And sooner or later, someone was going to come knocking at the door and tell them to leave. What did abandoned mistresses do?
Each of them watched the endless coverage, periodic updates by the impatient crime-scene detective, Nick Galligan, which said the same thing in fifty different ways. Autopsy pending. Nothing to report. Ongoing investigation. Assiduously pursuing leads.
And what about his secrets? How much of Thane’s sexual life would become public knowledge and how soon? The media were digging right now.
It was only a matter of time until they got to his mistresses, MJ thought, terrified. She had been with Harold-Thane into the wee early hours; what if the police questioned everyone who’d seen him between Christmas Eve and the morning his wife found him?
What do I do? How much of the truth do I really have to tell?
