For All the Wrong Reasons

by Louise Bagshawe

  The fact that Jung-Li and all her predecessors had been hired by Felicity from a vastly expensive and seriously discreet madam on the West Coast was something Ernie need never know. Or anybody else for that matter. Felicity paid cash and used a false name. She also used pay phones and the good old US Postal Service, sending her packages from different stations around the city—once, even, from one of the better parts of Brooklyn.

  Yes, it was, objectively speaking, a bit humiliating, Felicity thought. But Ernie didn’t know she knew and neither did anybody else. The Diana affair had tipped her off as to what it would take to keep Ernie satisfied, and Felicity wasn’t into domination. Nor was she into social exile, and Ernie had proved her way out. Felicity could sit on the small part of her heart that still longed for true love, for a soulmate. Love was a fairy tale; at best a matter of luck. You needed to meet the right man in the right place at the right time. The odds had beaten Felicity, and she had never considered giving it a serious shot with her Marine escort. It was hard to live without money. She looked out over Rome, and congratulated herself for her honesty. Yes, her therapist had helped her understand that you needed to be true to yourself.

  There was no denying she liked her creature comforts. If other girls wanted to be poor and romantic, that was up to them. Felicity was a realist.

  Room service materialized; a handsome waiter with a charming accent. Felicity made sure to flash him a lot of thigh, tanned and toned and peeking from her peach satin negligee as she directed him to the sun-drenched balcony. He smiled and bowed, producing Irish crystal glasses, porcelain and silver-plated cutlery. Breakfast was a small grapefruit, some dry Melba toast, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a half-bottle of champagne; Perrier-Jouet rosé. There was nothing like champagne in the mornings, or any time of the day, really. She liked a drop first thing, just to soften the edges.

  The waiter brushed against her breasts as she handed him a ten-thousand-lire tip. Felicity arched, very slightly, at the deliberate pressure of his rough fingers. It had been so long since she’d had an orgasm with a man. Ernie would never be able to satisfy her—or any other girl, for that matter. But she pulled back, and contented herself with a frosty smile, dismissing the help.

  Felicity knew what they said about Italian men and the bedroom. But no half-hour thrill could possibly be equivalent to her new diamond engagement ring, or her fantastic wardrobe, or the summer cottage in Martha’s Vineyard that was Ernie’s latest little present to her. Felicity had been highly successful in shepherding her charge through the divorce; a few well-placed charity donations here, a pleasantly coordinated dinner party there, and Mira Chen was forgotten.

  Ernie laughed about the fevered imaginations of the tabloid rags and nobody snickered—at least to his face.

  Felicity poured herself a glass of pink champagne and toasted herself. By constantly deferring to the married ladies of New York society, and making no attempt to outshine them, she’d done better than Diana. After all, the girl was English, and didn’t understand that if you show up members of the club, you’re liable to be kicked out.

  Diana had proved herself to be unworthy of the notice of the Jodie Goodfriends of this world, Felicity thought, picking at her sharp grapefruit and gazing out at the scooters that roared through the cobbled Roman streets below. The girl riders in faded denim bitsy shorts, their bronzed, slim legs clutching the metal, wearing no helmets. Here everybody smoked and drank and didn’t start the day without an espresso strong enough to stand a spoon up in. Everybody ate gelati all day long and weighed two ounces, until they had babies and suddenly morphed into black-shawled, pudgy mammas. It was as though the sun made you immortal. Perhaps Diana Foxton had thought herself immortal, disappearing from the scene without a trace. Nobody knew where she had dived off to. One lousy million, and she was never heard from again.

  Felicity sipped and let the icy champagne flow down into her stomach to warm her up. Diana was not her problem; she was nobody’s problem anymore. The most pressing thing she needed to concern herself about was making a positive impression at Ernie’s little party for the Italians. Soon she must buzz her PA to bring her the Rolodex. Signor Emarti liked Cuban cigars; Signorina Vitello was a baseball freak, and Felicity had obtained a signed Mark McGwire ball just for her. She had no doubt that Ernie and she would make the most incredible splash.

  The sunlight crept up the ancient walls, bathing the ocher houses in vanilla light. In about an hour, she thought, Jung-Li would have finished off Ernie’s “personal treatments” with a “massage.” After that she would call him as he went to work; a housekeeping call, to let her dear fiancé know how treasured he was.

  *

  “So that wraps it up then.”

  Ernie stood, glancing around the small, dark-paneled room with satisfaction. The offices of Media Cinque were cramped in comparison with his glass-and-chrome palace, but the money behind them was serious cash. He could wing it in any setting. Madison Avenue, Wall Street or even this burgundy and mahogany old gentleman’s room, with the quiet air-conditioning failing to remove the smell of cigar smoke and the faint whisper of aniseed from the Sambuca bottle old man Bertaloni liked to leave on the table when he served the coffee. It had been aggravating, sure, the way the fuckers had snickered when he asked for decaf. Nobody in the whole of the wretched country ate low fat, or drank diet sodas or decaf. So fuck ’em, let ’em laugh. He’d have the last one, when Blakely’s debuted with a toy division and a slice of European TV action. He, Ernest Foxton, had already taken the publishing house out of the dark ages, and now it was time to spread his wings. He felt invincible.

  “Si, si.” Bertaloni was giving him that tight little wop smile, but Ernie made sure never to let his warm expression flicker for a second. The businessmen here were just like the mafia in all those movies: big on respect. Bertaloni had carved out a multimillion-dollar empire in this country, with its crazy politics and lousy lire, and the old geezer insisted on making out like a uomo rispettato. Ernie could handle that, though. He was an expert ass-kisser when it paid for him to be one. “Tonight we drink, we celebrate, I will meet your wife.”

  Ernie thought of Felicity and hoped she had her shit together, all the little gifts and stuff. She must, right? He had no doubts of her.

  “Actually, she’s not my wife. She’s my fiancée. I’m divorced,” he said, instantly regretting it. A dark shadow flickered over the old man’s craggy face.

  “Divorce? Is not good. Famiglia is molto importanta.”

  “Yeah, I agree. My wife left me, though.” Ernie tried to look heartbroken. He grinned inwardly. “The divorce came through just recently, and me and my fiancée hope to be married very soon.”

  “Ah.” Bertaloni nodded. “Wife leave, that is very sad, Signor Foxton. But marry is good.”

  “You’ll meet Felicity tonight,” Ernie promised him smoothly, “and I’m sure you’ll just love her.”

  His people nodded and chatted to the Italians on their way out of the door, and Ernie was proud of them. He had the ability to select the right men for the job, that much was sure. Once he got back to the States—he gave himself a mental slap on the back—he’d announce the new deals, poach some people for the toys division and become an even bigger star in the entertainment business than he already was. Ernie imagined how all the little bastards who ran scared of him now would just scatter into their corners. He’d be the new Donald Trump, with Felicity at his side, going to all the right places with all the right people. And meanwhile his enemies would be crushed. Just like Diana, that stupid bint; she’d had the chance to enjoy all this with him and she’d blown it, big time. And just like Michael Cicero. How sweet it had been to pull the candy out of that baby’s mouth! He thought he was such a big man, making Ernie grovel, trying to bully him like some nightclub bouncer.

  I crushed him like a bug, Ernie thought. Maybe when I get back to New York I can find out what he’s doing now, and crush him some more. It was important to let people
see just what happened to boys who crossed him.

  *

  Diana didn’t think about what she was doing, because Michael didn’t give her time. His mouth on hers was ruthless. A second later, his arms wrapped around her, half-crushing her to him. He was so strong, so incredibly—big. She had never felt a man with muscles like this. His arm was almost as big as her thigh. She felt herself overpowered, overwhelmed, her soft breasts pressed up against his pecs. There was a wash of heat in her lower belly, worse than any frustrated wanting she’d felt before. In her head, Diana knew sex was never good. But in her warm belly, she wanted him. The downy hairs on her arms and skin lifted, she felt her nipples, betraying her, hardening into nubby cherries, filling with blood. Her pussy tightened, she felt herself getting wet. She tried to draw back, but he wasn’t allowing it. Cicero’s breath was hot on her face, her neck. He was hard against her dress. He was huge. He was so different from Ernie’s thin, disgusting cock. He seemed a little longer than usual, although she wasn’t used to many men, but it was the thickness of him. She half wondered if he would hurt her, taking her. His hands were all over her bottom, stroking and kneading it, rubbing the tender place at the small of her back. Diana’s breath quickened. She felt maddened with wanting him.

  Michael pulled back an inch, just enough to let him see her face.

  “We’ll get out of here.”

  His voice was low and insistent. It seemed ridiculous even to think of protesting. He just would not permit it. He gave her no room to breathe, no way to see straight.

  “Yes,” she muttered.

  Michael opened the door and walked straight out. Opie was marching up to them again. Diana felt a sudden panic that he might change his mind, regain his sanity, return to work.

  “We have a meeting,” Michael said, snapping at Opie like a turtle. He backed off. When Cicero was in this hungry-gator mode, it was best not to mess with him. He shot Diana a look of pity. Obviously she was in deep shit this time.

  Diana kept her head bowed and followed Michael out. She was in an agony of lust and embarrassment. She didn’t want any of her colleagues to see her flushed face, her glittering eyes, her lips, moistened and parted. She must look feverish. She fixed her gaze on the strong muscles of Michael’s lower back, sliding about under the skin. Maybe she was insane. She was. She should back out now—

  “Michael,” she said softly.

  A cab screeched to a halt in front of Cicero. He turned to look at her, peeling the clothes from her skin, his gaze stopped right between her legs. It was like a touch of rough fingers trailing over her belly. Unable to stop herself, she gasped.

  “Get in,” he said flatly.

  She got in the cab and he piled in beside her. He leaned forward to speak to the driver and put his hand on her knee.

  “West Broadway and Hudson,” he said.

  *

  Diana stepped out of the cab and tried to look relaxed. She’d wanted to pull herself together during the ride, but it had been impossible. Michael had put one hand down the small of her back and had started stroking the curve of her behind, rhythmically, insistently. He was playing with it like it was his toy. Sometimes she had been a little self-conscious about her bottom, but she felt his desire, his excitement, and it turned her on. Cicero was kneading and squeezing while he kept up an easy banter with the driver, discussing the disastrous season the Mets had just had, and all she could think about was trying not to squirm with pleasure and need.

  Her panties were a thin chiffon thong. Her behind was bare under her skirt. Diana felt the slim scrap of nothing that covered her start to cling to the moistness of her groin. She bit down hard on her lip and said nothing until the car halted and Michael’s hand tugged her out of the back.

  He threw a twenty at the guy and punched in the code for the door. There was a maintenance guy in the lobby. Michael greeted him cheerfully, but Diana had to swallow the groan that bubbled in the back of her throat. Surely her condition must be obvious to this man. He didn’t seem to be staring at her, but how could he not know? How could anybody miss it? Her whole skin was burning. Michael turned to her.

  “It’s a bit of a walk. Ten floors up.”

  “That’s fine,” Diana managed. Her face flushed, hotly. “I’m used to walkups.”

  She deliberately started to mount the stairs. Oh, man. Why had he said that? One flight, two, she barely noticed the gradient. Michael was still downstairs, chatting. Great time to pass the time of day. Why not? she thought angrily. She reached the landing, and heard him racing up the stairs behind her, three, four at a time. He caught up with her. She noticed he hadn’t even broken a sweat.

  “I can’t believe you said that to him.” Her eyes flashed. “Do you always have to show off your conquests to other men?”

  “A conquest.” His dark eyes bored right through her. “Is that what you are? Maybe you flatter yourself, Diana. I bring illustrators here all the time. Males and females. He’s used to it.”

  Cicero opened the door and put his hand on her elbow, marching her in.

  His place was tiny and immaculate. Diana saw the low-slung, hard-looking bed, made neat as a soldier’s, behind him. Suddenly she felt tiny, dwarfed by him.

  “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” she stammered.

  He laughed. He reached out and cupped her breasts with his hands, hefting them, as though testing their weight. A fresh rush of electric lust rocked through her hips. She shuddered, and Michael pulled her to him.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  For the first minute, Michael was careful and gentle. His thick fingers fumbled with the buttons of her dress. He managed to pull it from her without ripping it. He laid it carefully across the back of a chair.

  Diana moaned softly. Waiting for him to touch her was agonizing. Her knees were trembling as though they might not be able to support her. No man had ever touched her with such confidence and command. She forgot that all sex was bad, that it was something women put up with. Her body leaped to his touch, pressing forward, but Michael was holding her back, almost amused.

  “Easy, girl.” The whisper of his breath was warm against her bare neck. “All in good time.”

  He reached behind her and unhooked her bra. Her breasts fell out, slipping warm and heavy with blood from the mocha lace, and she heard a quick intake of breath from him at the sight of them.

  “Rose-pink. Dark rose,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  “The color of your nipples. I was wondering about it.” Cicero reached forward and rubbed the tip of his thumb over her left breast, not touching the swollen tip, just circling around it.

  It was more than Diana could stand. Wantonly, she thrust herself against him. She was nude against the cotton of his shirt. He grinned and reached between her legs, cupping her with the palm of his hand. He could feel the slickness of her through the scrap of her panties.

  “I want to look at you,” he told her. “Turn around. Let me see you.”

  Diana turned slowly on her heels as he kicked off his shoes and slid out of his pants. His cock was so hard it hurt. She was stunning; one of the rare women better naked than dressed. Oh, damn, look at that ass. Her stomach was flat enough to balance a champagne glass on, her muscles just slightly defined, and her torso tapered out to a firm, flaring butt, a perfect peach, rounded and high and tight and so womanly it drove him nuts. Her breasts were soft and full and natural. There was a light dusting of freckles on the tops of them, like powdered cinnamon. Cicero felt his resolve to tease her wane. He had to have her. Right now. He tore off his shirt and went over to her, his hands ranging all across her warm skin. She was intensely responsive, but awkward. If he didn’t know she’d been married, he might have thought her a virgin.

  Diana squirmed as she felt his hands grip her, the thickness of his cock press into her back. She was desperate for him, but the size of him made her nervous.

  “Will you hurt me?” she muttered, her fingers closing around him.

  He pu
shed her back on the bed, hard.

  “No.” His voice was thick with lust. “I’ll go slow. At first.”

  His hands reached up and pinned her arms over her head, and his mouth was on her again, kissing her, pinning her under him, and her legs parted, and he entered her gently, half an inch at a time.

  *

  “We have to get back to the office,” Diana said, reluctantly.

  She kept her head down. She had showered and dressed again, but she felt self-conscious in Michael’s presence. She had had no idea that sex could be like that.

  His cock impaled her. There was no way she could think about something else, like she had done with Ernie. His hands were on her, his fingers rubbing the slick nub of her through the silky downy fur even as he took her, turning her over, licking her breasts, directing her body for his pleasure. She had never felt so richly enjoyed. She had come over and over again, little crashing orgasms just teasing her, preparing her, for the way he made her yield to him right before he came, so she was only aware of the sweet block of pressure in her groin and pussy, the way it built up relentlessly driving her forward, filling her mind totally with his cock, his chest, his strong arms, until it exploded in a white-hot burst across her skin, leaving her drained and panting.

  She was astonished to have felt that way. She could hardly look him in the face. Michael had tried to kiss her as she recovered, but she felt shy and drew back from him, going to wash. What must he think of me? she wondered. What a slut he must think I am. Her body’s reaction was a shock, and she had stumbled to the bathroom, reveling in the hot water, the precious few seconds left to her to try and gather her thoughts.

  My God, she thought, I’ll never be able to look the man in the face again.

  “What’s the problem?” Michael said to her, after he emerged from the shower. Diana had dressed herself, neatly buttoning up her dress as high as it would go, and tying her hair back in a severe French pleat. She glanced down at the coffee she’d fixed from his machine, trying to avoid staring at the thickly muscled chest, the hard, defined biceps. What was he really? Just a jock. I mustn’t let myself be fazed by a jock, Diana thought.