by Cris Anson
Dismayed, Lyssa held her tongue. A week without seeing clients meant a week without a possible commission. But it was more than she could have hoped for a few minutes ago. It sounded as though she could keep her job.
Halsey Smythe broke into a smile. “Capital idea. We have someone on retainer. I’ll get him right on it.”
He turned his overly large body to face Lyssa, no mean feat within the confines of the captain’s chair, and raised his right hand to stroke his long, thick mustache. His eyes bored into hers. “I think we can settle this without too much trouble.”
Lyssa stared at that right hand. His wrist, to be exact.
She saw what had been hidden underneath his finely tailored French cuff. A thin platinum bracelet identical to the one she’d hidden in her jewelry case.
* * * * *
“Did I wake you?”
The sexy timbre of Savidge’s voice slid down Lyssa’s spine like a hot tongue. She had snuggled into cool flowered sheets a few minutes ago, after the ten o’clock news. “Mmmm. I was just falling asleep.”
“How was your day?”
“Good and bad. The good was, the video of your home is in the can. Took a couple of hours. The tech was very professional, knew just what I wanted. We should have a rough cut in a few days.” Lyssa settled herself deeper between the silky sheets. “By the way, I found something when I was fluffing up a pillow.”
“Oh? Which pillow?”
“One of those blood-red damask ones on the eggshell sofa in the living room.”
Savidge chuckled low in his throat. “Couldn’t have been a used condom. We haven’t made love in my house yet.”
Sparks singed every nerve ending in Lyssa’s body. She could vividly imagine the weight of him pressing her into the nubby texture of the sofa cushions. Darn, but he could make her yearn for him in the blink of an eye.
“Actually, it was a piece of jewelry.” She held her breath to see what he’d say.
“Hmm. I don’t remember anything being missing.”
“It was a bracelet.”
A few beats went by before he repeated, “A bracelet?”
“Yes. A thin platinum one with intricate engravings.”
“What kind of engravings?”
Was he playing coy? Did he not want her to know about the “secret signal”? “I didn’t have a jeweler’s loupe with me, so I couldn’t make it out. They were intricate, sinuous lines, that’s all I could see.”
She had, however, scrutinized her own bracelet under a magnifying glass when she’d returned home. The carvings depicted various coupling positions that had probably been lifted from the Kama Sutra. Her cheeks heated to think what Orson Ames might say if he saw one on her wrist.
“Finders, keepers,” he said. She imagined him shrugging.
“Actually, I have one of my own.”
She heard him take a deep breath. “You do?”
“Yes. I’ll show it to you when you get back.”
“Like the one you found?”
“Yes.” She decided to take the plunge. “Your father gave it to me after the board voted me in. He’s a great kisser, by the way.”
This time his pause was longer. “If you’re trying to make me jealous, you’re succeeding.”
The sentiment warmed Lyssa down to her toes, but she couldn’t let him know how pleased she was. “Peyton? He seems to be a nice man. I can see where his son got some of his more, shall we say, appealing traits.”
“‘Nice’. I think he’d raise an eyebrow at that description.”
“I only saw him for a few minutes.”
“Probably because you were blindfolded the rest of the time.”
Lyssa smiled, remembering. “I was very apprehensive. Kat didn’t tell me what to expect. She just peremptorily told me ‘you’re wearing it and shut up and come with me’.”
He chuckled. “I can imagine Kat doing just that.”
“The screening committee all seemed very caring.”
“They are. They’re people with hopes and dreams and fears, just like you and me.” A pause. “Peyton is available, you know. The most eligible bachelor in the Fortune Five Hundred.”
“Not interested. He does, however, have something that I like.”
A beat went by before he asked, “What’s that?”
How much should she admit? They couldn’t see each other, but had already shared so much. In the cocoon of darkness and flowered sheets, the intimacy was almost unbearably sweet. “His son.”
“Good.” She heard him swallow. “Lyss, I’m not sure I’m happy that you’ve been accepted into the Platinum Society.”
“Oh? Why not?”
His voice turned hoarse. “I saw you rubbing the bacon with the fireman, the cowboy. Now that I know you—not Salome, but you, Lyssa Markham—I’m not sure I could watch you go from man to man and not want to wring his neck.”
“Savidge,” she whispered the name like a prayer.
He cleared his throat then said briskly, “Enough of that. You said your day was good and bad. What’s the bad?”
It took her a moment to switch gears. Had she imagined the emotion in his voice? The jealousy he was trying to minimize? Was he hiding embarrassment that he’d said too much? Okaaaay, she’d do the same.
“Sally Greene. Some woman who complained that I was guilty of moral turpitude.”
“You’re kidding. Who in today’s world uses words like that?”
“She must have looked it up in a law book. I thought it was George. He saw Kat’s and my bracelets, and we kind of made fun of him.” She related the incident in her kitchen where she and Kat had briefly explored lesbianism in front of George’s goggling eyes.
“He could still be behind it,” Savidge mused. “The man strikes me as being a dog in a manger. Doesn’t want it, but doesn’t want anyone else to have it, either.”
“That’s for sure. I pity his poor bride.”
“So you’re not jealous that he remarried?”
“Jealous? Of him? Of them? Good grief, no! Shedding him was the best thing I’ve ever done! Correction. Second best. The best was letting Kat talk me into going to a very special masquerade.”
“I bless her every day for that selfless act.”
“Me, too. It’s opened my eyes to what I can be. What I am. I love my sensuality, my freedom of expression. I want to taste and touch everything. I want to expose myself to everything the world has to offer.”
Savidge was silent a long time. Lyssa wondered if the connection to London had faded. Or if he’d construed her words to mean she wanted to expose herself to every man in the world and he didn’t like the idea. Finally he said, “You deserve all of those things. Tell me, what was the upshot of this accusation of moral turpitude?”
A twinge of disappointment darted through her, then she chided herself. They had made no vows of fidelity to each other. She mimicked his casual air. “It was the strangest thing. Halsey Smythe, the president and owner of Prestige Realty, he came to the office to talk to me and Orson, my manager. Orson, poor guy, had to tell me all of what she said. His cheeks, his ears, they turned red as a fire engine. It was obvious he wasn’t a member.
“Anyway, this woman threatened to go to the press with the story of me being seen in an ‘establishment’—her word—that catered to the depraved and the promiscuous. Orson, bless his heart, didn’t know anything about the Platinum Society, but he still stood up for me. Halsey agreed to pay for a private investigator to snoop around Sally Greene, then he lifted his hand up to stroke his mustache. Savidge, he was wearing the same bracelet!
“I can’t tell you how relieved I was. He was so subtle about it, too. Orson didn’t suspect a thing. If I hadn’t accepted the offer to join, I wouldn’t have known about the bracelets, wouldn’t know it was the ‘secret signal’ among members. And I’d have still been tarred and feathered and not known I had an ally.”
“I’m glad for you,” he said, his tone subdued. “You’ll have lots of friends in t
he Platinum Society.”
He almost sounded regretful, Lyssa thought. As if he really didn’t want her to be a member. Could he be jealous of other men? Of the thought she might want to spend a night or a week with another man or two?
It was time to get onto less weighty ground.
“How much longer will you be in London?”
“I should complete my business today, then I’m going to Cambridge to see my son. I’ll be back on Saturday.”
“Will you have jet lag?”
“London’s only five hours’ difference. Why? Want to invite me to dinner?”
I want to invite you into my bed! She gave a little, self-conscious laugh. “If you don’t mind second-rate cooking. I’m not sure I could measure up to Yuki’s expertise.”
“Omelets would be fine.”
Lyssa’s heart skipped. He wanted to see her! She didn’t have to pretend to be a fancy chef, but she’d certainly give him something tasty. Even if she had to con Kat into giving her a pair of her candy-pants for Savidge to lick.
After a few more minutes of desultory conversation, Savidge said goodnight without a hint of phone sex.
She wondered why she was so disappointed.
Chapter Twelve
“Damn you, George, what the heck do you think you’re doing?”
“Whoa. You can’t come storming into my office like that!”
Lyssa waved the objection aside. “Your assistant’s been here for eight years. She does recognize me, you know. She was on the phone and just motioned me to go in.”
George ran a finger around the collar of his beige, button-down-collared shirt. Good. She hoped his noose would feel even tighter when she got done.
“Sit down. You make me nervous.” George flopped into his high-backed executive chair and put his hands, palms down, on his blotter, as if needing to feel something solid between himself and a formidable adversary. Which she was, now that she had found some backbone.
“I’ll say just two words to you.” Spine straight, Lyssa sat in the guest chair across from him. “Sally Greene.”
George’s eyelid twitched. “Who’s that?”
“Don’t you ‘who’s that’ me. You know damn well that Sally Greene is your new mother-in-law.” She’d have bet her next commission that there was a link to her sneaky ex. It hadn’t taken long for Halsey’s PI to discover the connection.
“Oh,” he said, apparently stalling for time. “That Sally Greene.”
“You put her up to it, didn’t you.” It wasn’t a question. She was damned sure he had. “How come I never saw how petty you were? You don’t get your way, you take your baseball and go home.”
“Now, Lyssie, don’t get your knickers in a knot. I might have mentioned it to my wife that you belonged to a sex club, and she might have told her mother. Sally didn’t tell me until afterwards what she’d done.”
“My name is Lyssa. Don’t you ever call me Lyssie again. And how would Sally Greene know what to say unless someone told her what the Platinum Society was? Or maybe she’s a member, and embellished on what you told her because she’d experienced it firsthand. Is that it? Should I tell your bride what her mother knew about the Platinum Society? The daisy chain and all the other variations of fucking I was told she mentioned?”
To his credit, George kept his voice moderate, even though he winced that a certain four-letter word appeared in the same breath as his mother-in-law’s name. “Couldn’t you have just called me? This isn’t quite worth you coming all the way downtown just to ask me some questions. And you’ve acquired a dirty mouth.”
Lyssa leaned forward in her chair. “No dirtier than your mother-in-law’s. I wanted to see your lying eyes when you denied knowing any of this crap. I learned to read your eyes a long time ago. Remember you told me that when you were a kid, you were afraid to look into your mother’s eyes when you’d done something wrong? She always said she could see crosses in your eyes when you lied. You know something? She was right. Because I could, too.”
“Babe, listen—”
“Don’t you ‘Babe’ me.” She stood, planted her fists on her side of his desk and loomed over him. “I’m no longer the doormat you turned me into. I’ve got a spine now. In fact, I’ve got more balls than you have. And I’ll use them if I need to.” She had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch.
“Before you try to stab me in the back again, think carefully on this.” She poked a finger into his hand still splayed on the blotter, resisting the urge to crash a fist down onto his fingers. “If you’re not a member, you don’t know who else is. I do. I can access the roster in a minute. You’d be surprised who’ll be on my side in any altercation you care to start.”
She took a breath, relishing the gaping mouth, the bugged-out eyes of her ex.
“For example. Do you know if any members of your investment firm are Platinum Society members? What would you say if some night, when I’m doing the nasty with one or two of your naked partners, I let it slip that George Markham is embezzling? Or that you’re a faggot who likes to be whipped by a bald giant?”
She had the satisfaction of watching his Adam’s apple bobble a few times as his face paled to almost the shade of his teeth.
“You wouldn’t,” he managed.
A nasty smile in danger of turning into a sneer crept onto Lyssa’s face. “Don’t bet on it.”
With that, she spun on her heel and strode to the door. When she opened it, she turned back to him, knowing her grin had turned to pure evil.
“Or maybe your little MariBeth is a member.”
And had the pleasure of slamming the door against the sight of his now-purple face.
* * * * *
The satisfaction of one-upping George faded as Lyssa scrutinized the platinum bracelet she’d found under the blood-red damask pillow in Savidge’s living room. She didn’t know what had possessed her to inspect it under a magnifying glass. Sitting in her bedroom, thinking of him, perhaps she just needed something of his to touch, to hold near to her heart, her lips. And it comforted her to know that he didn’t have his “secret handshake” for entrée into the London club.
A stone lodged in her throat when she read the engraving inside of the bracelet. CYS. Quickly she opened her jewelry case and retrieved her own bracelet. Sure enough, LMM was inscribed inside. The powers that be in the Club had done their research. She didn’t use a middle initial in professional or legal matters, so they had used her maiden name, McBride.
Savidge’s ex-wife was named Columba, Kat had told her, one of the well-heeled Younts of Bryn Mawr. But didn’t Kat also tell her they’d divorced six years ago? If so, had the bracelet lain hidden under the pillows for that long?
She scoffed at the idea. Surely he’d had a maid or cleaning service over the years for a home that large. Someone would have found it in all that time.
Or had he indulged in a quickie with Columba recently? Was that why the first thing he’d said when she told him what she’d found was, “It wasn’t a used condom”? Because he hadn’t needed one? Because maybe she’d had a hysterectomy and he knew she could no longer conceive?
And why was she worrying? Just because she couldn’t stomach the idea of having sex with her ex-husband, anyone would be crazy not to want to indulge in the same with Savidge. Especially an ex-wife, who presumably knew of his expertise firsthand.
Damn. Savidge had really gotten under her skin. Not just the sex, mind-blowing though it was. The man intrigued her. Coming to her rescue at the pool when George confronted her, and when he’d reneged on paying the tuition. Dinner at Savidge’s home, his thoughtfulness in having Kat bring the overnight case for her to use. Dancing close in that smoky jazz joint. His tender smile when he’d awakened her in the Aston Martin at two in the morning. Kissing her until her knees buckled and then leaving her wanting more. Calling her from London just to hear her voice.
Images crowded her mind of Savidge fucking her on his desk at the law office, then later on the bathroom counter, of
his tongue on her slit when she lay naked and sheened with sweat after her dance of the seven veils. Even the phone sex had been special, something she’d never even considered until after she’d met him.
She let her eyelids flutter closed. Savidge. She was hooked. She didn’t know if she’d ever be able to attend another club function if she thought Savidge would turn his attention to someone else. It would break her heart to watch him in action if she was just one of the crowd, or worse yet, merely a former lover.
He had admitted over the phone that he was jealous, but that reference was to his father’s kissing her, wasn’t it? Then he’d briskly changed the subject, as though getting into an emotional quagmire was something to be avoided on pain of death.
Well, she’d play it out the same cool way. The phrase “fuck each other’s brains out” now made sense to her. She’d do it whatever way, whenever, however he wanted it, because, she admitted to herself, she was addicted to it. To him. And when the time came for him to walk out of her life, she’d deal with it then. Not a moment before.
But she’d be damned if she’d ask him how that bracelet came to be under the pillow.
Chapter Thirteen
“I brought you something.”
Lyssa feasted her eyes on the man standing on her front porch, jacket slung over one shoulder, overnighter at his feet. He’d been gone less than a week, but it felt like a year since she’d seen him. Bruised smudges under his eyes, hair rumpled as though he’d run his fingers through it in agitation, the lines bracketing his mouth a little deeper. The creases in his black pin-striped trousers had disappeared. The three top buttons on his light blue shirt were unbuttoned, exposing a thatch of chest hair that made her fingers itch to grab a handful.
“Come in.” Her voice felt thick. She stepped aside and allowed him to enter first, then closed and locked the door.
