Evening Storm

by Anne Calhoun

  Ryan’s gaze darkened as he took in the freckles covering her from her toenails to her hairline. His hands swept from her hips to her breasts, then up to cup her jaw and kiss her. Working blind she reached between their bodies and gripped his erection, then centered herself over him and took him into her, centimeter by centimeter.

  He needed this. She wanted it. Tomorrow might bring lies, regrets to last a lifetime, but tonight she was strong enough to give him what he so desperately needed, and strong enough to walk away afterward.

  But it was good, hot and electric and as irresistible as she’d imagined. More. Even with the barrier between them her entire nervous system lit up. It was nothing like the stories he’d told. Braced on her elbows, she kissed him and rode him shallowly, working the head of his cock inside her, keeping her mouth pressed to his while the pressure coiled inside her. Skin to skin, slick with sweat, sharing breath, pulses racing. Her hands tightened on his shoulders as she watched the sex flush bloom on his chest and cheekbones. That’s what she wanted, honest desire written on his skin.

  Under her, Ryan’s stomach flexed, then he groaned. She channeled the storm raging outside, reshaping the dunes, pounding the sea grass, drawing white light to her nerves, rolling thunder to her heart, and let it all pour over him, washing him as clean as the air after a storm.

  She bent to him. “This is you,” she murmured against his mouth, her hair clinging to her cheeks, his neck. “This is your truth.”

  His hand gripped her hip and hair hard enough to bruise, sting. “Our truth,” he said. It was tightly frantic, simple, honest, and when she tumbled over the edge, her heart thrumming in her chest, she took him with her. He held her hard as his cock pulsed inside her.

  She slumped, curling on her side, refusing to let regret or fear wind into her mind. After a few moments Ryan got up and went into the bathroom. He came back with a wet cloth for her. She cleaned herself up, then pulled on her chemise and panties and drew the wrinkled cotton sheets over her body.

  To her surprise Ryan didn’t go back to the room he’d shared with Lily. Instead he crawled over her. Braced on hands and knees, he looked down at her, shadows of the storm in his eyes. Whatever happened, she had been true to herself, and therefore to him. She reached up and touched his lips with her fingertips. The fabric of the night was already straining at the seams; anything more would tear it from top to bottom. “Stay. Sleep,” she said.

  “Simone—”

  “Sleep,” she repeated. “Whatever it is will still be there in the morning.”

  ***

  When she woke up to sunshine beaming like a relentlessly cheerful relative, she was alone in the bed. Her bag sat just inside the closed door. She washed her face, found an unopened toothbrush in the medicine cabinet, and brushed the night’s film from her teeth, brushed and braided her hair. Then she repacked her bag and went downstairs to find Ryan.

  He wore the shirt she’d ruined the night before into jeans and a soft gray T-shirt with PENN on the front. It must be from his college days, because it actually fit his shoulders and arms. He was sitting on the oversize couch, his phone, laptop, and tablet lined up on the glass coffee table in front of him. The television was on, the volume low and indistinct, the news anchor’s lines scrolling across the bottom of the screen. Simone automatically noted Breaking News and Biggest Scheme in History before she stopped at the stairs to the sunken living room and cleared her throat.

  Ryan turned around. Bags were under his eyes, the skin drawn tight around his mouth, but somehow he looked relieved. Not like things were better, but the relief of having a secret out in the open. “Hi,” he said.

  She should apologize for last night. She’d shoved him, twice. There wasn’t really a name for what she’d done after that, too bald and real for seduction. How should she describe sex like a gauntlet thrown down at a man’s feet, part demand, part challenge, a fit of temper and frustration similar to the ones that caused her to rip the seams from a design, hurl the pieces to the ground, and stomp on them? She looked him straight in the eye. “I should say I’m sorry about last night, but I find that I’m not sorry about last night at all.”

  A dry laugh huffed from his nostrils. He looked at her, and for just a moment she saw the wolf lurking in his eyes. “I’m not surprised.”

  She flicked a glance at the television screen. In the silence she could hear the anchor’s faint voice. “Last night federal agents raided the homes and businesses of two men accused of running one of the largest Ponzi schemes in history. Thousands of investors all over the world were affected, including a significant number of charitable trusts. . . .”

  Of course Ryan was watching the business news, even on a Sunday. Seeing her interest, he turned up the volume, enabling her to hear the list of pension holdings, charities, and investment groups affected. Her family had quite sensibly diversified their investments to include U.S. holdings, and while she had very little that wasn’t wrapped up in Irresistible, both she and Stéphane had transferred some of their investments from France to the United States. “Who?” she said. “Which company?”

  “MacCarren.”

  Her head snapped around. There was a split second of shock, then the key slipped into the lock and turned, aligning tumblers that had been out of joint the entire summer.

  “You knew.”

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  “Months.”

  The picture changed on the television screen, automatically drawing her eye. The banner at the bottom of the screen read Who is the Whistleblower? The text scrolled as the anchor and experts discussed possibilities.

  The lock opened. “You’re the whistleblower.”

  He just nodded.

  Stunned, she sat down hard on the top step. “When you said you couldn’t tell me, you weren’t being melodramatic.”

  A short head shake.

  “How?” she asked, stunned.

  He woke up the tablets, tapped the keyboard on his laptop, and looked at his phone when it vibrated. “I entered the wrong account number to execute a trade. When I went back to fix the mistake, it was right down the rabbit hole. Once I figured out what they were doing, I went to the FBI, and agreed to try to get confessions. My cover was that I wanted in on the scheme.”

  “So you needed them to believe that your lifestyle was lavish enough that you needed to make money illegally.”

  “Exactly. MacCarren already survived three different investigations by the SEC. The FBI didn’t want to take any chances. They wanted confessions and documentation. I agreed to get it for them.” He said that as if he hadn’t stopped to count the personal cost for that kind of deception, for being aware of the devastation that would come if he did what he said he was going to do. “The sad thing was, I didn’t have to work very hard at all to convince them that I was that amoral. Show up at a few parties with a few supermodels and actresses, spend money like it’s water, and obviously I’m the kind of guy who would bilk hardworking investors in order to install a black marble bathroom in my executive suite.”

  “That’s why you kept coming back to Irresistible.”

  He looked straight at her. “You have to believe me when I say that I didn’t intend to drag you into all of this. Jade and I stopped by the showroom on a whim. But then there was all the buzz on social media. I had no idea how interested men would be in my sexual exploits if I threw a supermodel and French lingerie into the mix.” He shrugged. “But the truth is that I didn’t need Irresistible or you to pull this off. I came back because I wanted to see you again, and every time I did I told myself I wouldn’t do it again. And then I did. It’s the definition of irresistible, something too tempting to be resisted. That something was you. Always you. You reminded me that there used to be a different man inside my skin. You gave me the confidence to think that when this was all over, when I hit rock bottom, there might be enough o
f me left to go on. You saw me at my worst, and still saw something worth salvaging.”

  “I understand why you did what you did,” she said slowly. “I still don’t like being a pawn in your strategy.”

  “I know.” He looked at his hands. “You weren’t supposed to happen this summer. You hadn’t happened in the prior decade. Why this summer?”

  His phone buzzed on the coffee table, vibrating the glass on top of the elegant piece of driftwood that supported it. Ryan lifted it and looked at the caller. “It’s my FBI handler. He’s been calling every five minutes since the story broke. He doesn’t know where I am, and I think it’s making him a little antsy.”

  “I’m surprised he doesn’t have a tracking device on your phone.”

  “I shut off the one he gave me.”

  “You should answer him.”

  “He can wait another five minutes,” Ryan said. “For a little while longer, I’m just another guy who worked at MacCarren. When that anonymity ends, it ends forever. I have things I need to say to you while I’m still just Ryan Hamilton. I don’t want to say them in front of a full complement of FBI agents.” He drew a deep breath, and she steeled herself. “I am so goddamn sorry I dragged you into this mess.”

  “You did the right thing,” she said. “I respect you for knowing the difference between ambition and avarice.”

  He looked down at the floor between his feet. “I just got off the phone with my mom. At my recommendation, she had her entire retirement savings invested in the boutique side of the house, and so did most of her circle. I couldn’t take it out without drawing attention to myself. I couldn’t tell them, in case they couldn’t keep the secret. They’ve lost everything. As have thousands of other investors. This had been going on for almost twenty years, part of a legitimate investment bank, an exclusive venue for select investors. It never fails. Making people feel special, like they’re part of an exclusive club that’s gaming the system, will always work.”

  She knew exactly what it meant, because the same exclusivity and aura of mystery drove the branding for Demarchelier and Irresistible. “Couldn’t they somehow turn it all around?”

  “For a little while I thought they could, but after I really understood the scope, there’s no way. The losses are too big. They’re ruined. The MacCarrens will be known not as the lucky ones in the inner circle, but as the unlucky ones, the children and family of thieves and liars. I spent yesterday with them,” he said. “I played with their kids, sailed on their boat. And then I got the confessions and called the FBI agent. The raids went down early this morning.”

  During the storm. The man she thought who couldn’t tell right from wrong actually couldn’t demonize anyone, not even the MacCarrens. “Ryan. You didn’t do that to the family. The MacCarrens made their choices, and they didn’t think about how their families would suffer when they were discovered. What other option did you have?”

  The look he shot her was bitterly amused. “I could’ve quit MacCarren, found a job with another house, and forget that I ever found that account. Other people have. I know that now. I’m not the first to figure this out. I’m just the one who walked into an FBI agent’s office and told the truth. And then I lied to you. Again and again. I bought into this life. The American dream, making as much money as possible, by any means possible. I told myself all kinds of lies. This is my way of life. The only thing that stopped me was the thought that maybe there is an afterlife, and maybe I was going to see my dad again, and I would have to explain to him what I’d done, and why I’d done it. What the fuck happened to me?”

  This was the confession he’d needed to make every time he came to her stoop. She studied him for a long moment, noting the tight set of his jaw, the conflict warring in his eyes. “Life happened to you,” she said. “We all make these choices in big ways and small ways every day of our lives. You keep saying that you don’t think you’ve hit bottom. I think you did when you found the books. You started to climb out, when you decided to do the right thing. Now you just keep going. There’s no trick to it. You just keep going.”

  The phone buzzed again. Ryan linked his hands in the top of his head and blew out his breath. “I really should answer that. Logan’s a decent guy, and I draw the line at giving him a bleeding ulcer just because I’ve got one.”

  He swiped his phone and lifted it to his ear. “Hamilton.”

  Simone couldn’t make out the FBI agent’s words, but his tone told her everything she needed to know. Ryan said, “I know, I know. Yes, I’m still in the Hamptons.” He rattled off the address of the house. “No, I’m not going anywhere, but I’ve got someone with me who needs a ride back into the city. Wait, hold on a second.” He pulled the phone away from his mouth, and covered the microphone for good measure. “If you want, I’ll call a car service to take you to the helicopter pad. I paid for a return flight for you.”

  “I’ll ride back into the city with you,” she said.

  He was already shaking his head even as she finished speaking. “You don’t understand. When I get in their car, I’m going to disappear for a few weeks, maybe for a couple months. When I come back, I’m out of a job, and I’ll very likely be a pariah in the only industry I’ve ever worked in. I don’t want any of that tarnishing you.” He stopped. “Too little, too late.”

  She got up and went to sit beside him, then lifted her hand to stroke the side of his face, brush her thumb over his lips. “I understand. But for now, you don’t have to be alone. Tell your handler to come pick us up.”

  ***

  Special Agent Logan got out of the car with murder in his eyes, but restrained himself to a low, curt word as Ryan got into the back of the SUV. He looked neither surprised to see Simone with Ryan, nor at all put out by Ryan’s request to drop her off at Irresistible.

  “I recognize you,” Simone said when the penny dropped. “You were in Irresistible with Tilda Davies.”

  “My wife,” he said curtly, obviously trying to blunt his temper. Having lost hers spectacularly not twelve hours earlier, Simone could sympathize.

  “That day . . . were you checking up on Ryan?” she asked, trying to assemble the jigsaw pieces.

  “It was coincidence,” Logan said.

  Simone looked at Ryan. “You didn’t even blink.”

  “I’ve got a good poker face,” he said. “Always have.”

  But he paid for it with an ulcer. After that, no one spoke for the rest of the trip back into the city. She reached for Ryan’s hand when they got on the highway, and held it all the way across Long Island and into Manhattan. He mostly looked out the window until they turned onto the crosstown street, making their way through the Fashion District to Irresistible.

  She gave his hand a gentle squeeze to get his attention.

  “You sent the orchids,” she said quietly. Neither Logan nor the other agent gave any appearance of listening, but still, she wanted this to stay between them. “The sun catcher. The Shakespeare in the Park ticket.”

  “I did,” he said. “I wanted to give you things. I still do.”

  He turned his hand over, wove his fingers through hers, then went back to looking out the window until the car idled outside Irresistible, the agent driving not bothering to put it in park. Logan got out and opened Simone’s door. Her fingers trailed over Ryan’s as their hands separated. He stopped her with a word.

  “Simone. The stories were for you. Since the day I met you, it’s always been you. That’s the truth.”

  “I know,” she said.

  He got back in the SUV. She watched until the truck turned the corner and disappeared.

  ***

  She didn’t see him, or hear from him, for nearly three months. She ignored the media blitz surrounding the rise and fall of the MacCarrens, declined all requests for interviews, and eventually the furor died down. She turned down Stéphane’s dinner requests, put on her Fall Fash
ion Week show, hosted Luxe evenings with Tilda Davies showcasing her lingerie, Tilda’s stationery, and art from Sheba. By working a hundred hours a week she harnessed the buzz built during the summer of Ryan, found additional workroom space, hired more seamstresses and a junior designer with experience at Agent Provocateur, negotiated a deal with Barney’s, and another with Nordstrom. Fall arrived, and she rediscovered the pleasure of wearing silk under cashmere and denim.

  But Ryan didn’t come back to Irresistible. One day in October Lorrie mentioned that he’d surfaced for a deposition, but disappeared just as quickly.

  That evening Simone made chai tea and took it to the front steps. While she drank it, she wondered if her impetuous actions the night of the storm had cost her Ryan. He had clearly wanted to hold back. As he was the one who knew the whole story, perhaps she should have listened to him. Perhaps he’d wanted to keep her separate, untainted, so he would have something to come back to when the storm passed. Perhaps she was now forever associated with the worst summer of his life. Perhaps, with the passing of time, the memories were too painful, too ugly to revisit. She’d put herself in the same position as Jade and Daria, and even Lily, and had taken what she wanted from Ryan Hamilton.

  Perhaps, in giving him what he needed, she’d destroyed any chance they had to be together.

  The truth would set you free. In Ryan’s case, it set him free to move on, and put a terrible past behind him.

  “C’est la vie,” she said to herself. Swallowing the dregs of her tea she pushed down the lump in her throat and went back inside.

  ***

  One day in the middle of November, when a warm front moved up from the south and pushed back the cold winter air swinging down from Canada, she put on a lightweight down vest over her turtleneck and jeans, and went to sit on the stoop. She made herself some tea and put it into an insulated tumbler. The odds of being able to sit outside and enjoy the weather after today were very slim, and she intended to take full advantage of it.