For All the Wrong Reasons

by Louise Bagshawe

  Soon her proper little twin sets and neat, tweedy skirts were the talk of the gossip columns. She was a regular in Liz Smith’s column and Heidi Kirsche’s page, always photographed in make-up by Chanel, with a little tote or a subtle clutch evening bag, in the sweetest designer gowns—long, always long.

  She dressed like a princess and acted like one too. In a matter of months, she had become one of the most courted wives on the luncheon circuit. And, as she fondly thought, the most popular.

  Her latest triumph was to redo the terrace. Surely Ernie would be thrilled. It would be a perfect surprise. Jodie Goodfriend had put her wise to that delightful Westchester gardening specialist who, for a price, would make house calls. And a few measly thousand later, she was looking at an instant garden—a leafy oasis of potted orange trees, entire beds of moss dotted with large balls of stone, terracotta urns stuffed with exotic grasses and shrubs, and delicate silver bells strung between the branches. Instant topiary hedges carved into balls and arches covered the entrance, and the clever little gardening man had promised her he would install some climbing ivy and wisteria next week.

  Idly Diana flipped through her diary and looked for a space. She wanted two or three girlfriends over to enjoy this masterpiece. If it was a sunny day, they could have a wonderful girly, gossipy lunch, under her orange tree in full blossom.

  Her phone buzzed and she reached for it. Ernie had had extensions installed in every room in the place so that she wouldn’t have to dive for the receiver.

  “Darling. It’s me.”

  Diana beamed. How nice, he was calling to check in on her. His gestures of affection had waned a little of late.

  “I have such a marvelous surprise for you, sweetheart. I—”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fantastic, Di.” Ernie’s common East End accent was showing through. It grated on her. She also knew it was a sure sign that something was seriously bothering him; Ernie downplayed his origins to the best of his ability. “Look, I need you here. Got to put a little dog-and-pony show together for someone.”

  “But I’ve got a manicure at three. It takes forever to get an appointment with Marcus,” Diana said, disappointed.

  He was snappy. “I really couldn’t care less. Get over here, would you?”

  “Who is this horrible man?”

  Diana wanted to stamp her foot. It had taken her two weeks to get a slot with Marcus and this was her first time. Most likely he would take umbrage and not see her for a month now. And all the girls were going to him. Except her.

  “Horrible is right. He’s a little idiot. But we want to land him. So be a good girl, and get yourself in a cab, all right?” her husband said, and hung up.

  Diana stamped her foot. Blast it. She dialed Marcus’s number and prepared to grovel. Meanwhile, she decided that Ernie could be a royal pain in the arse. And who was the odious guy cutting into her alone time?

  I hate him already, Diana thought.

  SEVEN

  Michael relaxed into his chair. It was hard, but extremely comfortable, obviously custom-made for Ernie’s office. Not the kind of furniture he’d have picked himself. He didn’t like showy, curvy chairs. For Michael Cicero a chair was just there to be sat on, not to be noticed. This little ergonomic number was just too accommodating, he might get drowsy on the job and that would not be acceptable.

  Today, however, he permitted himself to enjoy it. Today he was being worked on, not the other way around.

  Ernie Foxton was standing in front of him, concluding his presentation. The enthusiasm the Blakely’s people had shown for Green Eggs Books was amazing. It made him feel like John Grisham, or something. He was taken aback by how badly they wanted to get into bed with him. Janet Jensen, the dark, intense little woman, and Peter Davits, who seemed smart, had given him the hard sell for thirty minutes apiece. Janet’s department was enthusiastic about children’s literature and talked movingly about the lack of intelligent stuff for little kids to sink their teeth into. Peter Davits calculated that they could bring the company up millions of dollars in net worth in almost record time. His pitch was tough to resist, too. There was streamlined distribution, with a new fleet and a hungry sales force, apparently the best in the business. Ernie told him about booksellers and the global reach and mission of Blakely’s.

  In summary, they were telling him he could be the next Beatrix Potter. Amazing for children, and a multimillion-dollar industry at the same time.

  “You have to go with us, Michael,” Ernie Foxton said. His voice dripped sincerity. It was rough, and Michael recognized him as the limey equivalent of blue-collar made good. “It’ll be something new for New York. For America. Kids deserve this kind of book, and not just the lucky few who live round here. It’s time to go professional and stop fucking about. Don’t you think so? Excuse me, ladies.”

  “Yeah, I guess I do. I’m really flattered you show so much interest in the company,” Michael said, carefully.

  Ernie gave him a warm grin.

  “Not interest, mate, passion. Passion for books. Passion for quality.”

  “I need to think it over a little and discuss it with my advisers.”

  Ernie fought back a snort of laughter. His advisers? Right, like this little prick had advisers. Instead, he tossed him an oily smile.

  “Don’t take too long, all right? We truly believe Green Eggs is the firm for us, but the chairman is keen to buy something—if it isn’t you it’ll be somebody else. I don’t have the leeway I would like.”

  “Buy the company?” Cicero asked, bluntly. Ernie noted the square, stubborn set of the man’s jaw, and swallowed. The thickly muscled body made him nervous and ill at ease, and Michael was some schmuck, some years younger than Ernie and over a million bucks poorer. He detested the way Cicero looked at him as though they were equals. Didn’t he know who Ernie Foxton was?

  “Not buy the company”—that was a slip of the tongue, and Foxton chided himself—“buy ourselves a partnership. Think about this. All the other houses offered you a salary. We are offering you partnership, because we believe in you.”

  Michael hesitated. He loved passion. The figures sounded good. Was it a smart move to turn down a winning lottery ticket? That’s what this sounded like.

  Ernie shook his head. “No pressure right away. I’ll send the suits back to the grind”—he flashed his troops a charming smile—“and you can come out with me and my wife. We’re a personal firm, here. Blakely’s cares who it deals with.”

  “Sounds good.” Cicero extended a ridiculously firm handshake to Ernie.

  “Great. Great.” Damn it, Ernie thought, I got him. And in about three months I’ll have the firm, too. Once this arrogant little bastard’s taught us all we need to know. “Diana’s actually got a table for me over at the Russian Tea Room. Come along and have a drink.”

  “Sounds very good.” Michael relaxed.

  *

  The waiter deferentially ushered them to one of the choicest banquettes in the house, and Michael tried to ignore all the rubbernecking businessmen who were leaning out from their tables and staring at Ernie and him. He understood that they were trying to figure out who he was.

  You haven’t seen me before, he thought, thrilled, but soon each and every one of you will know who I am.

  “You can’t let business encroach on your pleasure time,” Ernie said genially. Michael couldn’t have disagreed more, but kept silent. The guy was making a lot of money. He must know what he was doing.

  “There she is.”

  Ernie waved at a female walking toward them. “My wife, Diana Foxton.”

  “Excuse me, darling, I was just freshening up,” she said. She leaned forward and kissed the air at the side of her husband’s cheeks. “And who’s this?”

  “Michael Cicero. A new business associate of ours. At least, I hope so,” Ernie said. “You’ll thank me for introducing you, Diana, it’s somebody your own age to talk to.”

  Michael stared at her. He knew he was staring, but he f
ound it hard to stop. There was something so wonderfully, vibrantly beautiful about the girl … was it the arch of her slightly thick brows, the daring comfort of the tiny, perfect little sweater that draped over those stunningly sexy breasts, that tilted upward at him, almost aggressively … or could it be the sweet blue eyes and lusciously shining platinum hair, that he longed to dive into, just breathing in the clean scent of her shampoo? She smelled of baby powder layered over the sweet breath of perfume from her skin.

  “Delighted, Mr. Cicero. Or can I call you Michael?”

  Diana smiled charmingly at the rude boy who was staring at her. Honestly, did Americans have no manners at all? She extended one hand in a delicate, well-bred gesture.

  Cicero shook it. His handshake was firm and dry. There was a lot of power in his grip. He was a big, coarse sort of a man, Diana decided. Look at those muscles; he must lift an awful lot of weights. She rarely met men of this sort; they made her edgy. Cicero’s dark eyes and fighter’s nose were too much, altogether. He was bristling with testosterone. It was strange to see a man with a body like that in a suit. Surely his natural job would be as an extra in some Hollywood action flick, possibly starring Sylvester Stallone or Arnold Schwarzenegger? He was shorter than Ernie, but so much stockier. And why were his eyes raking over her tights and shoes? Was there a run in them, or something?

  Diana resisted the urge to look down and check. Why give him the satisfaction? Anyway, who cared what he thought? A man like this would not appreciate the finer points of fashion.

  “Michael, please, Mrs. Foxton,” he said.

  The voice was deep, too, Diana thought, and coarse. He was probably another working-class boy made good, much like her husband. Oh, well, it didn’t do to be snobby. But he was so young for Ernie to be applying a full-court press.

  “Then you must call me Diana, and that’s settled,” she said, bestowing a radiant smile on him.

  They sat down to drinks for Diana and Michael, and a light lunch for Ernie. He ordered Beluga, and wolfed it down like it was a hummus dip. Meanwhile, Michael nursed an espresso and watched Diana while he talked business to Foxton. He tried not to drool all over his saucer, but keeping his control got a little easier as the minutes passed. Michael didn’t think he had ever met a more beautiful and stylish girl but, on the other hand, he’d never met a more vapid, stupid, spoiled little princess, either. Listen to her. She was discussing landscape gardeners and bitching about her so-called friends’ masseuses. The prices she was flinging around would have paid the rent on his shitty little apartment for a month.

  “Excuse me.” Ernie stood up. “My beeper has just gone. I have to get back to the office. Here, Michael.” He fished in his well-cut pocket and handed over a business card; it was stiff vellum, embossed with tiny gold letters. “This is Jack Fineman, my lawyer. He’ll be able to help you out, go through the figures and such like. I’ll get a copy of the contract messengered to you.”

  “Thanks,” Michael said. He pocketed it, stood and shook Ernie’s hand. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Like I said, don’t be too long. The chairman is breaking my back to get a deal with somebody. We really want it to be you.”

  “I hear you.” Michael grinned at him, and then Foxton was gone.

  He looked across at Diana Foxton. She didn’t seem particularly thrilled to be stuck with him.

  “I’ll drink up and you can get going,” Michael said.

  Diana arched a brow. She could, could she? Who did this man think he was? Ernie had asked for the dog-and-pony show, and he’d got it—and surely she wasn’t required to lay it on any thicker. She felt a small wave of resentment wash over her.

  “Thank you. Very kind,” she said.

  “Not that I mind spending the time with you,” Michael added. Her tone was extremely cold. Stuck-up little madam. He guessed it wouldn’t do to tell her to grow up and get a life.

  “What a relief.” Diana arched her back a little, like a cat. “But I’m in no hurry. I missed several appointments to be here and rushing out of the door won’t change anything.”

  “That’s bad. Really.” He was apologetic. “It must have been something important.”

  “It was vital, actually. It takes forever to get an appointment with Marcus Walker,” Diana informed him, frowning lightly.

  “He’s your doctor?”

  “My manicurist,” Diana said, pouting.

  Michael laughed. He couldn’t help it. He squared his shoulders and looked at her. “For pity’s sake, girl, listen to yourself.”

  “What do you mean?” Diana demanded, stung.

  “Your manicurist is hardly vital. Air’s vital. Water’s vital. You need to get your priorities sorted out, lady.”

  “My priority is to look good.”

  “I’d say you’ve already achieved that.” Michael gave her a lazy grin. “Why don’t you do something with your brain?”

  “I used my brain to make Marcus squeeze me into his client list,” Diana snapped, “and thank you for the career advice, but I think I’ve done just fine on my own.”

  Cicero tried to make himself shut up, but he couldn’t. “Well, you’ve married a rich man. So I guess that’s mission accomplished.”

  “You are an extremely rude person,” she said, drawing herself up. Partly to frighten him with her superiority, and partly because when he leaned forward, she caught the masculine scent of him, and those dark eyes were fixed on her. He was disturbingly unreconstructed. Over the top button of his shirt she could see the thick wiry hairs of his chest, curling up. Ernie was smooth as a baby down there.

  “I get that a lot.” Michael stood, his dark eyes still boring down at her. He was angry at himself for losing his temper, and angrier at her for being such a goddamn bimbo. No woman was perfect; when you found one with a decent body and a little elegance, she turned out to be grasping and as dumb as a rock.

  Maybe he’d even blown the deal. Cicero suddenly wanted to get it signed before Ernie Foxton talked to his wife. “Here, allow me.” He pulled out his wallet and slapped down a hundred.

  Diana looked at the bill like it was something nasty she’d found stuck to the sole of her shoe. She lifted it in her long fingers and handed it back to him.

  “I don’t think so. I’m sure this place is a little rich for your blood. Ernie would want me to settle up.”

  Flushing, Michael took his money back and left her without another word.

  What a stuck-up little bitch, he thought.

  *

  He hailed a cab on the street. Fifteen minutes later, he was back in his office, and Susan greeted him with an expectant look.

  “Mr. Cicero, welcome back. How did it…”

  He turned to face her and her voice trailed off. He had the slightly reddened face he got when he was truly angry—and that was a real bad time to be around him.

  “Not well.”

  Susan didn’t press the point. Timidly, she handed him over the thick package that had been sitting on her desk for an hour.

  “Blakely’s had this messengered over. They said it was your contract.”

  Michael ripped open the envelope and took out about eighty pages of densely printed legalese. He fished the embossed vellum card out of his pocket and tossed it to his assistant.

  “Get me Jack Fineman on the phone,” he said. “Quick as you can. We may not have much time.”

  Once Diana Foxton went bitching to her husband, she would blow this deal for him. Blakely’s was offering a partnership. Michael wanted to kick himself. Why couldn’t he just have kept his mouth shut around the selfish, spoiled little princess?

  *

  Fineman was brisk and businesslike. “I would love to represent you in the matter, but I can’t. Conflict of interest.”

  “Fair enough. Tell me, who should I be talking to?”

  “Let me see … somebody skilled, not connected with Ernie…”

  And not too expensive, Michael felt like saying, but his pride wouldn’t let him.
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  “… Jane Grenouille, she’s your woman. Grenouille and Bifte, they have an office on Fifty-fourth. I recommend her,” Fineman said warmly. He gave Cicero the phone number. “I can fax the contract over to her right now, if you like. It’s standard, shouldn’t take too much of her time. Oh, and Michael—Ernie Foxton already signed it from his end, so if you countersign within twenty-four hours it’s nice and binding.”

  “What if I delay beyond that time?”

  “Then you need to get him to sign another copy. I guess they put a time limit on it in case another deal gets worked out in the meantime and you force them into bed with you.”

  “Thank you,” Michael said quietly.

  It never occurred to him to ask how Fineman knew Ernie had signed the contract.

  He called Jane, who sounded young and vivacious and a little ditsy, but seemed to have an excellent grasp on the legalities. She suggested a few changes and told him he should jump on it.

  “We’ll get a few things policed up, though.”

  “Are they vital?”

  Michael suddenly had an image of Diana Foxton going home and sobbing on her husband’s shoulders. If he signed today, the deal was valid, and Ernie couldn’t rip it up.

  “No. You’d lose the twenty-four-hour window by the time we got the renegotiation back.”

  “I’ll get back to you in a little while,” Michael said.

  He hung up and looked around his tiny office, breathing in the wafts of moussaka and lamb with minted yoghurt from the taverna. His prints shook slightly on the walls as the booming bass of the record store leaked up through his basement.