by Josie Brown
Note of caution: should your host’s recommendation include, say, crotchless panties, a naughty schoolgirl plaid skirt, brocade ankle restraints and a head harness with a muzzle gag, be sure to bring along something you’ll know he deserves, for getting on your bad side.
A cement overcoat will do nicely.
“Go with the backless one. You’ve got the shoulders to carry it off.”
I turn around to see who’s offering an opinion on my hunt for the right gown to the Breck shindig tonight. My advisor is a man who sits on a settee in a darkened corner of the Bergdorf-Goodman couture suite, just off to the side of the circular bank of mirrors.
While I’ve been scrutinizing my profile, he’s been admiring my shoulders, supposedly. But only now does he lift his eyes—from somewhere far below my shoulders—to meet mine.
From the look of his suit (made to measure for a man whose fit physique would look great in a gunnysack, let alone a fifteen-thousand-dollar charcoal gray Brioni) he has great taste.
He should. He is Jonah Stanford Breck IV, one of the wealthiest men in the world.
Sweetly, I smile at him through the mirror. “You like it better than the blue one?”
His eyes sweep over me, appraisingly. “Much more so. Albeit the blue sets off your… eyes.”
I laugh at his ridiculous attempt to avoid the obvious. My eyes are brown, What looks great in the blue dress is my… ass.
We both know it.
“Great, then. The blue one’s the charm.”
“You’ll be the belle of the ball.”
“Not a ball, really. Just dinner. In fact, I’ll be dining at your place, Mr. Breck.”
His eyes, gray like his trimmed sideburns, flash suspiciously for a moment before dulling into wariness.
“Your wife, Babette, extended the invitation. My daughter, Trisha, has been playing with Janie all afternoon. I presume Babette felt the diversion would be welcomed.”
“Ah! How thoughtful of her. She’s right. These business affairs can be deadly without a few petite amusements.”
As if on cue, a woman in a flesh-toned, sparkly low-cut gown walks out of one of the dressing rooms and over to Breck. She turns her back toward him, just slightly. “Zip me up, will you, darling?” Her murmur is deep and soft, like velvet.
Slowly, he runs the zipper along the swayed arch of her back then pats her ass, not so much to let her know he is done with her, but as a promise that he isn’t.
His eyes stay with her as she makes her way back to the dressing room. Finally, as if remembering I was still in the room, he adds, “She’s Babette’s personal shopper. Unlike me, after eight years of marriage, my wife finds trekking through stores ‘a chore and a bore.’ Marilyn is exactly her size and coloring, so these little shopping excursions are win-win for everyone. Beautiful, don’t you agree?”
“The woman or the dress?”
He points to my profile in the mirror. “A beautiful woman makes the dress.”
I smile my thanks. “Then I presume I’ve just had a preview of what Babette will be wearing?”
His smile fades. “Don’t presume anything. Babette doesn’t always agree with my taste.”
“A shame. So fetching.”
It is his turn to ask, “The woman, or the dress?”
“Since you’re paying, you tell me.”
He laughs uproariously at that. “I always do. And dearly.”
“Speaking of the dear, will she be joining us for dinner?”
His smile hardens into a smirk. “Later. Dessert. I have a voracious appetite, especially for sweet things.” His eyes catch mine in the mirror. “Remember, dinner at eight. Sharp.”
By the time I leave the dressing room, Jonah Breck and his personal shopper have already checked out.
When I take my dress to the sales clerk, she informs me, “Mr. Breck put it on his tab. He asked me to relay his sincere appreciation for your daughter’s hospitality, and he looks forward to returning it, personally.”
I guess I can tell Ryan he need not worry whether we’ll get close enough to the summit’s host. If Breck has his way, we’ll be up close and personal.
Or at least, I will.
Oh yeah, Jack should love that.
Chapter 5
Such Gracious Condescension
You have an excellent chance to impress new friends when you are a guest in their abode. The food, libations and ambiance was created by your host and hostess for the purpose of impressing you, so do go out of your way to be generous with your compliments! Spare no words in describing your appreciation of their furnishings and décor, as well as the little touches that make their house a home. And certainly, you should never come empty-handed. A bottle of wine will do, or perhaps flowers.
A note of caution: Be sure to eyeball all the exits, both doors and windows. This way, should you somehow insult your host (or, say, rile them into a frenzy) your getaway can be quick.
Having a helicopter standing by is never a bad idea, either.
“What else did he say, other than he wants to get into your pants?” Jack sits at the edge of the bed. Yes, he’s dressed for dinner, except that the top button on his tux shirt is open. The ends of his bowtie hang around his unbuttoned collar.
My mascara brush stops mid-stroke. I frown back at Jack through the mirror. “He didn’t come out and say that. It was merely implied. And for accuracy’s sake, it wasn’t my pants he wanted to get into, but my dress.”
“Semantics aside, did he mention Asimov?”
I cock a brow. “Asimov was the last thing on his mind, trust me.”
Jack grimaces. “No doubt, we can use the fact he’s sniffing around you to our advantage. But watch yourself around Breck, Donna. There’s a lot about this dude that doesn’t add up.”
I walked over to him. After fastening the errant button, I loop the strands of his tie into a proper bow. “It’s cute that you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous… Okay, yeah, maybe. But that’s not what this conversation is about. The stuff Emma is picking up on him leads me to believe the faithful husband, indulgent father and peace facilitator hasn’t totally changed his spots.”
“You’re telling me! I caught him with one of his arm charms.”
Jack shrugs. “Why am I not surprised? He’s a walking aphrodisiac: wealth and power.”
“Tell that to Babette. Nope, scratch that. I’d hate for her to seek solace in the arms of the messenger.” That vision has me clenching his bowtie a bit too tight.
He pulls me into his lap. It could be survival instinct, but his passionate kiss tells me otherwise.
Yep, Jack’s gag reflexes are working just fine.
Unlike this afternoon when I dropped Trisha on her playdate, tonight the Lion’s Lair is a gilded fortress, both figuratively and literally.
Instead of one guard at the gate, there are three armed guards, and a security detail roams the park-like grounds like big, hungry cats on the prowl for dangerous prey. I even spot a few guards in the turrets crowning the estate.
Jack gives a long low whistle. “Man! I can see why they’re holding the summit here. Looks like Breck has all the bases covered.”
I shrug. “Not if it’s an inside job.”
He knows I’m right. That’s why we’ve both memorized the dossier of Breck’s nearest and dearest friends and associates, several of whom, we presume will be dining with us tonight. Emma also pulled intel on the two German businessmen who came into town early for this shindig. Thus far, they look clean, but you never know.
Sometime during dinner, I’m supposed to excuse myself to check on Trisha and Janie. On the way to the nursery, I’ll make a quick detour into Breck’s office, where I’ll insert the tiny computer memory stick hidden in my bracelet. It contains a shadow virus, which will read all of Breck’s keystrokes and relay
them back to Arnie. At the same time, it will download all the computer’s files. When I return the memory stick to Arnie, he can search it for the code to the feed.
The whole thing is supposed to take no more than three minutes.
Jack and I smile pretty at the guard who stops our car. Yes, our names are on his manifest, so are photos of us, obviously taken today: mine, when I was ringing the front door with Trisha in hand; and Jack’s, as he and Trisha walked out of the ballet studio with Babette and Janie.
“Well, what do you know,” I murmur as I freshen my lipstick. “We’re being shadowed.”
The guard has us sign the manifest, then he scans our thumbs and our eyes.
“I wonder if they did this to Trisha,” Jack says, as we drive away toward the front door, where we’re met by a valet, who whisks the car off to some point beyond the six-car garage. “When we get back into the SUV, no talk beyond chitchat,” Jack warns me.
I nod slightly. Like, me, he knows our car will have been bugged by the time we’re ready to go home.
Are we having fun yet?
“Ah, Mrs. Stone, a pleasure.” Even as Jonah Breck shakes my hand, his eyes appraise me from head to toe. “So good of you to come. You’re a stunning addition to our table.”
I can tell he’s pleased I wore the dress he not only recommended but paid for, too. Good manners dictate I should’ve returned the dress with a note that was gracious, but firm in doing so. However, Ryan talked me out of it. “You’ve got his attention? Great! It means your presence won’t seem out of place. Keep playing up to him.”
Jack’s frown may have been missed by Ryan, but I certainly caught it.
I’ve no doubt he loves me as much as I love him. All the more reason to divorce Carl: so I—so we—can get on with the rest of our lives.
Babette stands by his side. She shakes my hand first, then Jack’s. Does she hold onto it a moment too long?
I’ve got to quit being so paranoid.
And yes, she’s wearing the dress I saw earlier today on Marilyn.
Jack and I are introduced to the others, all of whom I recognize from the dossier. They include Breck’s attorney Garrett Conover: too tall, too thin, and with a smile that is too wide to be genuine, apropos for the angel of death who dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s on all of Breck’s arms deals.
Then there’s the chief operating officer of Breck Global Industries: Rutherford Collins, Breck’s sniveling yes-man who delivered the WMDs under budget and on schedule. How are these guys adjusting to Breck’s new mantra, Give peace a chance? It should be interesting to see.
Along with Babette and myself, the other women joining us for dinner are a rod thin and tough-as-steel über-public relations flack with the face of a bulldog named Felicity Tolliver; and Breck’s personal assistant, Edwina Doyle. Our intel describes her as just north of thirty, single, efficient, and hailing from Paris. Her picture was kinder to her. In person, she is pale and mousy.
In other words, neither is the type who would tempt Breck.
Considering all he has to lose, I’d say that’s a smart move on his part. No need to dip his pen in company ink when there are so many other places to put it… or something.
The dining room isn’t one at all, but a library, which is supposed to be “cozy,” despite its football-field-length wall-to-ceiling books, two-story-high ceilings, and a fireplace large enough to hold three men and a little Bentley.
The table is round, which allows for optimum placement of the eight guests between the host and hostess. I’m seated to the right of Breck, and Franz is next to me. On his right is Felicity, with Rutherford beside her. That puts Babette to his right and directly across the table from Breck. Jack sits to Babette’s right, and Edwina on the other side of him, with Garrett on her right. Hans is sandwiched between Garrett and Breck.
Franz and Hans, who sit opposite each other, speak perfect English to everyone else, but hold side discussions in their native language. My earrings are embedded with an audio feed that allows Ryan to whisper sweet nothings into my ear. He promises to do so, should the bugs Arnie has planted in the flowers that adorn the table and the rest of the room pick up anything Jack and I should be warned about. It will be interesting to hear the translation between Franz and Hans. Even if their phrases are seemingly innocuous, I wonder if any codes will be detected.
For the most part, the conversation is polite, the service by a phalanx of butlers is attentive to a fault, and the meal is perfect. How can you go wrong with piquillo gazpacho as your first course, followed by a chilled Dungeness crab salad, roasted Pacific Northwest salmon with a vegetable ragout, and lime meringue pie topped with mango and raspberry ice sorbet? And of course, each course served with white and red gold-medal varietals.
In social settings, what is said isn’t as important as what you see. Even before the appetizer was served, Edwina had shifted her body away from Garrett, as if to avoid him and to focus on Jack. I can’t blame her. The guy gives me the willies, too.
Jack is gracious enough to answer her questions about the community and his role in his investment firm, but he’s smart enough to share his remarks and attentions with Babette.
Garrett’s placement must be ideal for him, because he’s practically fawning over Hans. Even when I compliment her on her dress, Felicity ignores me and does the same to Franz. Once snubbed, twice considering slipping a Roofie into her wine glass. What am I, chopped liver?
No. Apparently, I’m presumed to be Breck’s playmate du jour.
This is made obvious by the leer and wink he gives me after I try to broach the topic of Great Britain’s LIBOR debacle and its affect on American banks. I have to bite my tongue to keep from telling him that it’s me, not my breasts, speaking to him.
Right as the main course is served, Jack looks over at me. Feigning concern, he asks, “Donna dear, you promised Trisha you’d bring her teddy bear. Have you given it to her yet?”
“Oh! No…I have it in my purse.” I glance over at Babette. “If you don’t mind, Babette, I’ll just walk it down to the nursery.”
Babette nods. With a slight wave, she summons over one of the butlers. “Jamison will show you the way.”
Trisha is happy to get a kiss, a hug and her teddy bear, but she makes it clear that she’s not ready to go home by putting her arm around her new pal and burrowing under the blanket they share. Nothing like bonding over ice cream in bed while Brave plays on a screen that takes up one whole wall of the nursery.
Ah, the good life.
Jamison has already scurried back to his post, having been assured I can easily find my way back.
I can, but I don’t. Instead, I take a detour into Breck’s office and go to work.
The room is simple and elegant. Over a credenza is a John Singer Sargent portrait of a young wasp-waisted Victorian beauty. On another wall, a crowd meanders through a Parisian market through the surrealistic eyes of Georges Seurat.
Breck’s desk is large, glass, and empty. Where the hell is his computer?
Then I see it: a laptop, on the credenza.
Quickly, I remove the memory stick from my bracelet and insert it into the computer. While it does its thing, I lean over the desk for a better look at the Sargent…
“Beautiful, isn’t she?”
Breck’s voice sends a trickle of dread down my spine.
I lift my lips into a smile before turning around. “I saw it first a few years ago, when you loaned it to the Getty. It is one of my favor—”
Before I can finish my sentence, his tongue is down my throat, and his hand is on the lower part of my back. He has me leaning so far back that I’m practically horizontal across the credenza.
Sure, I could bite his tongue until he squeals in pain. And yeah, I can yank his arm out of the socket so that it hangs helplessly at his side. But if I do that before another two minutes i
s up, I’ll blow our mission to hell.
So instead, I try not to gag as he cups me on the ass and grinds into me. I moan as if I like it. In truth, this horizontal boogieman has me pressed up against something sharp. I reach behind to pull it out—
Hmmm, a sterling silver letter opener, engraved with his initials. As he conducts a more thorough incisor exam than I’ve gotten from my dentist, I try to guess how far his blood would spurt if I follow through on my urge to stab his jugular with it…
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the memory stick blinking: my cue to kiss him hard and grab it fast.
I reach over slowly. Unfortunately, this means I have to inch closer to Breck. He takes it as a cue to fumble with his belt and zipper.
Um…. No. No way in hell—
I whip out the memory stick. Then, as I push him away, I gasp, “I—I can’t do this! I love my husband too much!”
His smile fades. He stares down at me, as if deciding if I’m serious, or just a tease.
In any event, he’s still intrigued. I know this because he bruises my lips with a long kiss, then murmurs, “You can. And you will.”
He takes my smile as tacit understanding that he’s right.
Wrong. I have to force myself to drop the envelope opener, before I do something I’ll regret.
He zips up, and then straightens his jacket and tie. “In the meantime, feel free to hang out with Babette during the summit. I want you two to get to know each other well. That way, when you give up your pathetic attempt at propriety, she won’t suspect a thing.”
Without a glance back, he walks out the door.
Jeez. Seriously? Whatever happened to “ladies first?”
The man needs a lesson in good manners.
Accompanied by a horsewhip.
By the time we get back to the library, the conversation has shifted from the global economy to curiosity about the natives in their natural habitat.
“The town of Hilldale is nothing like we had expected,” Franz says to me in is booming voice. “So close to Los Angeles, but seemingly unsullied by all the celebrity glamour, or its big city problems. Your little burg is quite quaint, in an All-American way. It reminds me of that American television program: Leave it to Beaver, ja?”
