by AB Plum
“As you see, officer, I’m not really naked.”
Backlit by the late morning sun, he pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head and leans down, peering into the open car window. His gaze halts on my bare thighs.
Heat stings my cheeks. I yank the yoga pants over my knees and hitch up my butt so the fabric covers the transparent thong Michael insists I wear.
“So, officer, what will it take to keep this incident just between us? I mean, my husband doesn’t have to know, does he?” He knows everything else about me. Well, not everything.
“He found out this morning about my only friend. I’ll pay for that deceit.”
The cops frowns. “Is there more?”
“Okay, okay. To be perfectly, one-hundred percent honest, he doesn’t know about the Stanford class. He’s unaware I use an alias on campus. He has no idea I keep a change of clothes in my yoga locker in Mountain View. He’s clueless I change my clothes in the car. And he’s completely missed discovering that my old boyfriend now teaches the class I sneak off to attend two times a week.”
The cop flips open his hand-held tablet. “Your license and registration, please. This isn’t the first complaint—”
The drummers in my head ratchet up the volume on the bass drum, drowning out the rest of his sentence. Despite my flight to la-la-la land, my brain remains on alert. I whip the steering wheel to the right. The pedestrian escaping with her life gives me the finger. Ice thunks down my spine as the car’s interior contracts to the size of a coffin. Hand shaking, I adjust the rearview mirror.
“You’re being silly,” I whisper. God, I need to hear a human voice instead of a rap band.
The acrylic yellow car—some kind of low-to-the-ground foreign make that must cost enough to feed starving kids in Los Angeles for a decade—floats past to the exit.
I glimpse the back of the driver’s dark head, stare, blink, pinch the bridge of my nose and smack the steering wheel. “I’m not hallucinating. I saw his face.”
No question, no doubt in my mind. I saw Enrique Torres.
Eyes everywhere . . .
Chapter 11
HE
Top-tier CEOs do not, as a rule of thumb, give their private email address to bimbettes they meet in coffee shops. I am no exception—although I suspect Tracy stage-managed pretty much whatever she wanted from lower-tier chief execs.
Just one of the many differences between me and her other marks.
Regan Donnelly, my fifty-year-old, damned smart and very capable AA, greets me at the sixth-floor elevator with a steaming cup of Thai oolong tea enhanced with the tang of lemon, orange, cloves, and cinnamon. A close imitation of my favorite Russian tea.
“A thousand dollars, Regan if you net it out in ten minutes or less.” It refers to the three encrypted levels of work-related public email sent to me every day. She should have Tracy’s résumé by now.
We enter my twelve-hundred square-foot office with Regan summarizing at the speed of sound. I chuckle then laugh. Images of the proper and professional Regan with a pierced tongue and dozens of earrings stabbing the cartilage of her ear keep intruding.
Eyebrows arched, she slows her speaking rate as we approach the custom-designed glass slab I use for a desk. No question about what’s so funny. No chit-chat. If she knew my plan for Tracy, would she feel horror? Revulsion? Disbelief?
The moisture in my mouth dries up. My fingertips tingle. I cock my head as if listening, as if today is just one more work day, as if oil lubricates my taut nerves. I set my teacup in the middle of the desk then slide into my chair. Hands behind my head, I tilt back and stretch my legs. Sun, filtered through the remotely controlled blinds, warms my face. Regan remains standing, her voice clear and firm, convincing me she harbors zero suspicions.
Monet’s painting—painting, not print—L’entreé sous la niege glows on the wall opposite my desk. A single platinum-framed portrait of my family is my sole desk adornment. I swallow more tea then fold my hands on a white linen napkin. Someday soon I’ll replace the photo.
Regan lays a printout in front of me. “Shall I handle these job applications?”
“Later.” I thumb the résumés, then toss them aside and leave Tracy’s on top
Regan lays her notebook on the edge of my desk and refills my teacup. “The board lunch starts at noon. You have a very busy day.”
“Another cup of tea will fortify me for hours.” I smile, pull two five-hundred bills from my inside pocket, and lay the money on top of her notebook.
“I can’t take that, Mr. Romanov.” Cheeks pink, she sets my fresh tea within easy reach.
“You accepted my challenge.” I make and hold eye contact with one of the few women I trust. “You’re a jewel, Regan. Thanks to you, my inner sanctum runs as efficiently as the lab.”
A high compliment and she knows it.
She thanks me and places the bills inside the notebook. “You’re easy to please, Mr. Romanov.”
Tell that to my cheating wife.
*****
The meetings pass in a blur. I pay attention, though, because I’ve trained myself to compartmentalize my emotions. Tracy and AnnaSophia will pay, but at this second, I go through the motions, enduring the tedium without storming out. In the next week, barring some catastrophe or scandal, we will finalize the acquisition of Unleashed by L’Institut des Biologics.
This deal guarantees my place in the International Biotech Hall of Fame. Membership carries more prestige, more worldwide recognition, and more personal power than my cheating wife will ever appreciate. The slightest whiff of turmoil in my personal life will kill the acquisition as well as destroy my lifelong ambitions and dreams of a place in the science books.
Obsessing about Tracy or AnnaSophia instead of pretending to listen to my most important supporters puts everything I’ve worked for at risk.
Remaining calm is our best strategy, I remind the board. Reveal nothing to the press. Disclose nothing to our wives, families, friends, or total strangers. On that obvious statement, wishing I was a fly on the wall when AnnaSophia opens my surprise, I adjourn for lunch with a huge, almost authentic smile.
The lemon cream sauce on the roasted wild salmon tastes like rancid yak butter. The fresh asparagus smells like cat piss. My stomach rolls, but everyone else compliments the company chef. I nod as if hanging on every word the most nervous board member utters. The meal drags on and on and on. I glance at my watch. Half an hour until Tracy arrives. My neck muscles bunch, and I fight down my impatience, nodding until I think my head will fall off.
A small tremor vibrates behind my knees. Enrique must have left the penthouse by now. Standing, I press my thigh into the table leg. Time to work. Several board members opt to hang around and gloat about their soon-to-be multi-millionaire status. Wanting to appear natural, I order champagne—even though we consumed a dozen premium wines at lunch.
More bottles follow. The conversational buzz intensifies. My patience unravels.
Exactly four of the twelve board members remark on my departure at 2:00.
None, I am certain, notices I drank no champagne after the first glass.
Entering the private elevator to my office, I text Regan and learn Tracy arrived at 1:50 claiming she had a 2:30 appointment. Kp hr n yr ofc. My TOA=3:15.
Undrstd.
Wl xpln l8r. Which I won’t because I’m the CEO.
Something hot and fierce brings me close to euphoria. Gliding up to the sixth floor feels like floating. The excitement of the game is pure electricity.
*****
Dressed in a conservative gray suit with dark hose and short heels, Tracy stands as I enter my office. A single, fake pearl earring adorns each earlobe, but she has steeped in a godawful perfume oozing the heavy notes of jasmine. A cheap, very cheap, Chanel knockoff.
My nose twitches. People never fail to live down to my expectations. An inner smile makes its way to my face. I extend my hand. Hers is warm and dry. A good sign if she didn’t smell like a cheap h
ooker. Thank God for superior ventilation.
She smiles but lets me speak first. Another good sign. If I were looking for good signs. Without offering a reason for being half an hour late for our interview, I pull back my hand.
“Bob Walker has good things to say about you.”
Such as, you don’t mind going down on your boss in his office. My smile is knowing.
Crimson tinges her cheeks, and her carotid artery pounds. “Bob Walker and I go way back. It must be five, six years since I’ve seen him.”
“He said it’s been too long.” I lead her to a Barcelona chair. It requires concentration to sit on gracefully. I close the door and position my own plush leather chair so that unless her perfume strikes me blind, I have an unobstructed view of the Monet. “Since you and Bob have a history, why leave him off your list of references?”
She goes from prettily flushed to paper pale. “I worked there as an intern ten years ago. Nothing I did there increased my job skills.”
“Nothing?” Oral sex, I’m tempted to argue, gave you job security for two years.
Her eyes go blank, and her hands spasm in her lap like felled birds. “Don’t misunderstand me. I learned a lot, but I left because I wanted to expand my technical skills.”
“You were ambitious.” Fighting a laugh requires willpower, but I’m up to the challenge.
Not literally up—even though Tracy crosses her legs just enough to tease my imagination.
“I was ambitious. I am ambitious. I love challenges.” She shows no awareness she’s sitting in the same room with a Monet. Or with a view of the distant San Francisco skyline.
“Being my EA offers challenges, but they’re not technical. What if you get bored? Decide to quit? Leave me in the lurch?” I tent my fingers, tap my bottom lip, arch a brow.
“I’d never leave you in the lurch.” She lurches forward and slips sideways on her chair.
Her skirt slides up another couple of inches, and several small beads of perspiration dot her upper lip. “My work ethic wouldn’t let me walk away without giving professional notice.”
“But so many opportunities come along in Silicon—”
“If you checked all my references, you must’ve found I’m not a job hopper.” She makes no apologies for her rudeness but lifts her chin an inch. “I left positions for advancement, better opportunities, and financial incentives.”
So her references have confided—two of the four in very graphic detail.
“Every one of my EAs must maintain absolute confidentiality. I demand a vow of silence.” The gravitas of my tone is so laughable I put my tongue in my cheek.
“Every one of my employers cleared me for the highest levels of confidentiality. I never divulged a scintilla of information.” She ignores that her reputation for threatening to reveal the sexual dalliances with her employers became notorious.
“Excellent. Excellent.” I stand. “Would you like water? Soda? A drink?”
The dullness in her gaze brightens, but she presses her lips together before speaking. “It’s pretty early for a Manhattan, but water would be great.”
“Naturally, confidentiality extends to my personal life.”
“Naturally.” She sits up straighter.
“What if I said you couldn’t tell any of your friends you work for me?” I pour Perrier into a Baccarat tumbler. “Ice?”
“Yes, please.” She swings her legs to one side of her chair, stands, and joins me at the bar. “If you say don’t talk to friends or family or acquaintances about our relationship . . .”
Her damn perfume is putting me at risk for serious brain damage. I extend her glass and she comes toward me, chest thrown out, a just-between-us smile playing at the corners of her pouty, scarlet mouth. She takes the water, and her breasts graze my upper arm.
“I’d fire you for the slightest breach of confidentiality.”
“I assure you. You have no worries about my discretion. No matter what goes on between us . . .” she adds in a fast, hard afterthought, “. . . here at work . . . my lips are sealed. You’d have to pry them open surgically.”
Or pay out the nose. “I’m not that harsh.”
“No.” The high notes of her laugh scrape my nerve-endings. “I figured out this morning at Le Boulanger you’re a pussycat.”
“Better get to know me before you decide.” Smiling with plenty of teeth, I take her elbow, escort her back to her chair, and watch for signs of triumph in her behavior or attitude.
The first sign comes when she sets her water glass on the corner of my desk.
The compulsion to throw the water in her face knots in my chest, but I smile. With zero awareness of her faux pas or concerns about water rings, she arches her neck and falls back on flirting to stoke her confidence.
“Have you contacted all my references?” Her tone is purely rhetorical.
“Two were out of the office. Any reason they won’t give you a rave report?”
“None. Ab. So. Lute. Ly none. My former bosses all loved me.”
“The first two praised your many abilities and talents.”
“Oh, yes. Brett Jackson and Theo Arnold were two of my favorites.”
Her smile is so cocky I grind my teeth to keep from punching her in the mouth. “They left no doubts at all about you, Tracy. As soon as I mentioned your name, they opened up. I rarely get so much frankness about a prospective employee.”
“Well, then. What’s to keep us from doing . . . business together?” She unbuttons the top button on her jacket, reaches for the water glass and gives me an eyeful of the sheer white blouse plastered against her dark nipples.
My dick presses against my pants zipper. I shift my weight to give her a good view of her power. “I should go through the motions—in case anyone questions my due-diligence.”
“All right.” Reluctance drags out each word as if she’s pouting. The water still sits on the desk, and her jacket remains open. “But when will you let me know?”
“How about tonight? Let’s say at six?”
“Here?” Eagerness flashes in her dark eyes.
“Not here.” I shake my head. “You’d have to sign in. That’d start the gossip rolling.”
A frown hardens her features. “Are you—maybe—being a little . . . overcautious?”
“My wife’s already suspicious.”
“Really?” Tracy bats her eyes.
“Really.” I speak with so much sincerity, I feel like puking.
Why not feed her ego? She’ll never figure out I lied.
Chapter 12
SHE
Enrique Torres calls from the main gate at 2:29. Although I view him on the in-house security video, he identifies himself at once. His tan, unlined face gives no hint he saw me this morning. Was I so upset I imagined him in that weird car?
“Enrique, what a surprise.” I punch the OPEN key. The twenty-five-foot wrought-iron gate swings wide, increasing my growing paranoia. Why is he here?
Blinding afternoon sun glints off his windshield. He remains outside the gate, staring directly into the camera. “Mr. Romanov asked me to deliver a package. From him to you.”
The air around me thickens. My pulse skips. What kind of package? I close my eyes.
Probably not a bomb.
Not with Magnus napping upstairs. I massage a twinge above my left breast.
Payback for this morning at Le Boulanger? My chest tightens, pressing against my lungs.
Enrique clears his throat. “I hope I have not come at an inconvenient time.”
“No, not inconvenient.” Hysteria rides my laugh. I exhale and open my eyes. How does someone so genuinely nice work for my husband the sociopath? “Michael must have forgotten my appointment in five minutes with the governor.”
“I think he did forget. I’ll come back later. Perhaps in an hour?”
“Oh, in an hour, I’m meeting with Hillary Clinton. She wants my advice—”
His dropped jaw and convulsing Adam’s apple stop my sill
iness. He must know I have nothing but time on my hands now that I am no longer allowed to plant my roses.
“I’m joking, Enrique. Please, come on up.”
He thanks me. When the tail of his BMW clears the gate, I close it and jog barefoot to the foyer. Jogging is silly because he’ll need ten minutes to scale the driveway.
Just enough time for blood to flow back into my numb fingertips. I open my fists, flex my fingers and imagine a transfusion of rich, burgundy blood coursing into my veins, changing me, transforming my dread to courage.
Despite the overhanging tiled roof, heat rises from the veranda’s marble floor. I wiggle my toes and feel a blip of primitive bliss. In my family, both my parents and I went barefoot every day. During frigid Minnesota winters, we sometimes wore thick, hand-woven socks designed by my textile-artist mother.
My husband insists only hillbillies and Finns walk around without shoes.
Will Enrique notice my uncouth behavior and rat me out?
Nice as he appears, I have no doubt Enrique knows where his allegiance lies. All the Unleashed employees I’ve met accept that unquestioning loyalty to Michael is key to their success. Those with contrary opinions do not last long. Michael’s messianic vision, generous salaries, substantial bonuses, liberal stock options and other lavish employee benefits guarantee employee loyalty.
But the real reason no one contradicts Michael Romanov stems, in my opinion, from fear.
Of course, my psychological filters relative to Michael are hair-thin.
And personal.
And cynical.
Not to mention dangerous.
The temperature of my feet ratchets up. The floor is scalding. I wouldn’t feel surprised if imps climbed out of the depths of hell and came at me with pitchforks. Yipping, I dance on one foot, then the other, and edge into the shade of a potted palm.
Enrique’s car crests the hill in a shimmer of blue heat. Seeing him in a silver BMW provides a clamp for my imagination. Should I ask him about the yellow car? Why? Would he tell me if it belongs to Michael?
