After dodging several taxis to cross State Street and aimlessly meandering up Michigan Avenue, he ended up on the grand granite steps of the Cultural Center.
Realizing there was still an hour before its doors closed at dusk, he pulled out his phone and quickly sent the text.
I’m leaving you a gift at our regular spot. I expect you to wear it for me tonight.
Circling the corner of Washington Avenue, he waited an eternity for her response. She always made him wait. Finally, the vibration buzzed against his palm.
You’re a very demanding man. What makes you think I’m even in the area?
He re-read her text. God, he loved that moment. The moment she sassed back. Invigorated, his chest expanded like he was inhaling fire. It was true. He was a demanding man, and he liked it when she put him in his place.
Because we’re meeting tonight at the Peoria, and I doubt you would agree to that unless you’re a downtown girl.
Harvey paced up and down the street while waiting for her response. After an eternity, she finally quenched his desire.
Maybe I’ll end up being someone different than who you expect…
He paused and pondered her point. What did he expect? Nothing, actually. Nothing, other than to continue their affair because he needed to escape from everyone, including himself.
The only thing I expect is for you to be wearing my gift.
I doubt you’ll be able to top your first one, she pinged back.
True again. He’d originally bought that gift—a rare antique diamond choker—for Alma for their fifth wedding anniversary, two weeks before she served him divorce papers. It was a one-of-a-kind vintage piece that cost him more than his speedboat, and it felt like a sick form of therapy to finally give it away to another woman. She was right; there was no topping it. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t relish the challenge of buying something specifically for her.
Probably not, he replied. But this time, I’ll actually have the chance to feel it against my own lips.
He loved pushing the physical boundaries of their affair. She probably never thought he would take it this far, and neither did he. Their phone call had been the first successful breech. Tonight would be the next. Yes, he wouldn’t be able to top his gift to her. But he would be able to top the way he planned to seduce her. And if nothing else, he was still a man who kept his promise.
He gazed at his phone, remaining silent. It always did whenever he promised to cross the invisible line she set for him. Pulling the business card out from his back pocket, he dialed the number and retraced his steps back to State Street.
“Hello there, Maribel…This is Harvey Zale. I was just at your jewelry counter about an hour ago, looking for something to impress my ex-wife. Yes, well…let’s just say, I’ve given it some thought and I’d like to swing by again to pick up something that caught my eye.”
Chapter Eleven
Because we’re meeting tonight at the Peoria, and I doubt you would agree to that unless you’re a downtown girl.
Alma’s face flushed in anticipation, first reacting to the implications of his text, and then as a symptom of her insecurities. Would she actually have the courage to meet him tonight?
Maybe I’ll end up being someone different than who you expect…
After she sent her response, she regretted it. It betrayed her deepest fear, but she couldn’t help it. Playing the role of a sassy, sex goddess behind the shield of her phone was much easier than the prospect of meeting him—face-to-face—and fulfilling his fantasy of that persona.
“Who are you texting like a teenager?” Conchita eyed her sister’s reflection through the bathroom mirror while applying frosted lip gloss. “And why didn’t you tell me you had a hot date tonight?”
“Because I’m not certain I’m actually going to go through with it.” Alma held her phone like a rosary, praying for his next response to guide her decision.
The only thing I expect is for you to be wearing my gift.
Her heart fluttered in wonderment. What else could he possibly want to give her?
She texted back her response. I doubt you’ll be able to top your first one. She was playing hard to impress, because she knew he liked it. But secretly, she couldn’t wait to walk—no sprint—over to the Cultural Center.
“Well, looks to me like you’ve got a fish on the line who’s tugging at your G-string.” Conchita smacked her lips with a pop and gathered up her purse.
Probably not, he shot back. But this time, I’ll actually have the chance to feel it against my own lips.
Alma stuffed her phone into her overalls pocket, trying to rein in her shameful desire to read his text over and over and over again.
“So what the heck was all that anyway?” Conchita asked, exiting the women’s bathroom. “You and Harvey? And all that weirdness about the key? It’s not like it’s the only one out there…”
Conchita presented her version of the key to Alma before leading her through the corridor to a small side door with a matching keyhole. “Had I known you and Harvey needed to have couple’s therapy in the ladies’ lounge of my workplace, I would have just given you the damn key myself.”
Alma peered down at the key and frowned, noting its similarities to her own key. Conchita was right. If the key was unique to the building, it seemed less likely that their discovery of the bathroom—and the hidden message within the Tiffany snow crystal wall paper—was significant in any way.
“It was the farthest thing from couple’s therapy,” Alma corrected her. “As usual, it’s all my fault. I started something foolish this morning and we ended up here. But now, it just feels like a horrible ending to a bad dream.”
“Like the one where you’re naked and you’re being flogged in the dark with pelts of seaweed? Or maybe wet straw?” Conchita asked, opening the side door and leading the way through a maze of corridors that ultimately led into the candy department in the basement of the Field’s Building.
“More like the one where all your teeth fall out, so you go to your dentist and he pulls down his surgical mask and you realize it’s your ex-husband.”
“Hmm. I’ve never had that one.” Considering it, Conchita tapped her fingernails on the exterior glass of the candy counter. “Maybe it’s because I want to have sex with my dentist.”
Pulling out a fresh box of chocolate-covered cherries, Conchita offered the box to Alma.
“No, thanks.”
“Well, you had me in cardiac arrest when those elevator doors rolled open and he was mowing you down like a fertile patch of grass.”
Alma propped her elbows onto the counter and held her head, trying hard not to relive the sensuality of his tongue and the arousal of his penetrating kisses. “It was a total train wreck. Like a bad accident that just overwhelms you in slow motion until you suddenly feel the whiplash.”
“You’re telling me! I almost gave myself whiplash from the double-take. You two had me thinking you had actually gotten back together. And did you see the way you destroyed Harvey the moment you picked your date with Romero over him?” Conchita popped two cherries into her mouth. “Baaaaaaaall-BUSTER!”
“Oh, thanks for that, too, by the way,” Alma snarked. “I heard it was your idea to name the cocktail after me.”
“Well, it was fun going through all our options. It was either that or…SchlongLover. But Harvey and I agreed that was more me.” Conchita popped two more cherries into her mouth, filling it with pink gooey goodness. “Anyway, you do realize that was the night you served Harvey with divorce papers? He was so distraught that he called me to come over to his bar and explain to him all the ways he had failed you in your marriage.”
Alma tried hard not to allow her sister to guilt her into regretting their separation. “Well, I’m certain he’s over it now. He’s too busy managing his own sexcapades with women twice my height and bra cup size. And in one of the more incredibly awkward moments of my life, I caught him in a lingerie shop yesterday. And not the tasteful s
ection in the front, either.”
Conchita’s mouth gaped open. “In the slutty section at the back?”
Alma nodded.
“Well, hello…? What do you expect?” Conchita slapped the lid over the chocolate-covered cherries and placed them back into the display. “Have you seen that man’s ass in Levi jeans? It’s not like he has any trouble getting laid. It’s probably his version of couple’s therapy. If I were him, I’d be fucking every six-foot triple-D woman I could get my cock into. Duh.”
“Thanks for that pep talk. It does wonders for my five-foot five, 36B cup ego.” Alma watched her sister devour two chocolate cream truffles from a silver platter near the register. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough candy?”
Conchita sighed, knowing it was true, but she still couldn’t resist the temptation. “So why were you in a lingerie shop, anyway?”
Alma hesitated, realizing she had let more slip than she had intended. Then, after a quick back and forth in her mind, she dropped her guard and took the plunge. “In case I decide to go through with my date tonight.”
Conchita gazed at her sister, reaching out for an ornamental swirl sucker and unwrapping it. “Wow, really? That serious already? You just springboarded right over coffee at a café and a lunchtime matinee?”
“Basically. I’ve always been terrible with normal relationships. Just look at my track record. I almost had sex with my ex today in a freaking freight elevator.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Conchita agreed, licking her lollipop. “He’s a billionaire and you almost let him go down on you in a dingy department store basement.”
Alma peered at her sister, on the verge of confessing everything about her sexting affair with her mysterious suitor and her intentions to meet up with him tonight. But then she realized if she confessed her secret she would never go through with it.
“Well, at least have one,” Conchita insisted, pulling the box of chocolate-covered cherries out of the display case again and flipping off the lid. “Chocolate is the third most effective aphrodisiac in the world, and it sounds like it might be just what you need tonight.”
“Thanks, by the way,” Alma said, finally surrendering and indulging in two cherries. “For naming me Ballbuster rather than SchlongLover.”
“No problem,” Conchita replied, eyeing the last cherry before consuming it herself. “That’s what sisters are for.”
* * * *
Alma greeted Reggie, the security guard, on her way through the grand ornamental lobby of the Cultural Center.
“Mr. Hollywood just came by again,” he announced as she rushed up the white marble stairs leading to the Tiffany ballroom.
Alma slowed her pace. “Mr. Hollywood?” She played dumb, despite the fact that she knew exactly what he meant—the tall man with the movie star smile.
“Yes, Miss Castillo,” Reggie nodded. “He whistled all the way up the stairs like he owned the place. He said I should tell the first woman who passed through these doors that he was waiting for her. I told him we’d be closing in thirty minutes. Told him I didn’t think we’d be having more visitors. But here you are.”
“Is he still up there?” Alma asked, doubling back down the stairs, almost terrified to know the answer.
“Could be.” Reggie nodded, shifting his eyes upwards and noting the silence. “I didn’t see him again after that.”
Unable to face the prospect of meeting him prematurely—without fresh makeup or even a decent pair of panties—Alma lost all her confidence and retreated to the entryway, gauging whether or not to run out the door, away from every doubt that had plagued her about tonight.
“Did he say anything else?”
“Nope. Just kept on whistling.”
Whistling? Was that the sign of a sane, happy man or a crazy unstable serial killer?
Alma wasn’t certain—there was a fifty-fifty chance it could go either way. Gazing up the white marble banister, inlaid with ornate Tiffany glass, she regained her confidence. This was her building. Her haven and sanctuary. And there was no reason to turn away from it, fearing she couldn’t fulfill the fantasies of a man who barely knew her.
Especially not a man who whistled.
Alma took a deep breath and started back up the stairs. The Tiffany ballroom was quiet and she was thankful for it. No whistling meant there was a chance he wasn’t there, waiting for her, which meant she still had time to decide whether or not she planned to meet him tonight.
The moment she ascended the staircase, she spotted the gift box resting on the sill of the arching cathedral window. Sensing nothing but the golden rays of twilight glinting through the panes of glass, she crossed the ballroom and picked up the box. It was satin white with a silver bow decorating its lid as well as a matching note card attached to it. She flipped over the card and read the inscription, formally typed in stern uppercase letters: THE LESS YOU WEAR, THE BETTER IT WILL LOOK.
She studied the box again and quickly pulled off its lid. After digging through the plumes of crimson tissue paper, she withdrew the treasure beneath it—a ruby and diamond anklet. Three strands of petite cut diamonds encircled the anklet while tear-drop rubies delicately hung down from its base like sizzling sparks of flashing fire. It was sexy and flirty and spontaneous, everything she felt whenever she engaged with him. She had feared his gift would be a piece of perverse lingerie that matched his fantasy for the night, or some kind of ring that would inadvertently advertise his awkward desire for a deeper commitment. But the anklet was the perfect gift, a subtle message reaffirming his uncanny ability to know exactly the woman she wanted to be whenever she was with him. It was more than perfect; it was empowering, and it was that feeling of confidence that attracted her—time and time again—into his dark, unpredictable maze of the seduction.
Chapter Twelve
Butterflies still churned in his stomach whenever Harvey rode the elevator up to the top floor of any of his skyscrapers. But this time was different because it was his newest acquisition, The Peoria, a garish symbol of wealth and power and elitism that only he could love.
Its design was a deliberate modernization of the quintessential Chrysler Building in New York City, quickly turning it into an object of scorn and controversy before they even broke ground. With its contemporary flare and distinct ornamental crown of superiority, it reigned over all of Chicago’s adjacent heavy-load buildings in the Loop, most of which were built fifty years earlier without the industrial benefit of steel and glass that bolstered The Peoria’s towering height fifty stories above them.
Soaring strength. No matter where he stood along Michigan Avenue in downtown Chicago, he could always see it, rising up from the skyline like a newcomer who refused to be ignored.
When Harvey had been given the chance to buy The Peoria from his competitor, Phillip Spears, he jumped at it, paying a rare premium to secure the privilege of calling it his own. Previous to that purchase, he’d only been known in the real estate community for flipping low-end “scrap” projects. Vulture plays—run-down warehouses, condemned residential buildings, shuttered factories, polluted parcels along Chicago’s riverfront. In contrast, The Peoria offered over seventy stories of luxury commercial office space with an unobstructed view of Lake Michigan. Its tenants included some of the most prestigious international companies and their leases were set in stone for the next twenty years. The Peoria cost a fortune to purchase because it generated more cash flow than a small country, and he’d leveraged almost every single asset on his balance sheet to close the deal, but he had no regrets. Harvey Zale had finally arrived, and he wanted all of Chicago to know it.
It was fitting that he was meeting her here, in his newest conquest at the top of the world, he thought, as the elevator halted with a chime and he stepped out of the cab with the air of a man who knew his net worth trumped everyone’s in the room. While the majority of The Peoria was commercial office space, its top five floors were designed as luxury living suites for business executives and their guests, of
fering a panoramic view of the lakefront skyline rivaled only by the Spire and the Hancock Tower. And at its apex was Harvey’s favorite achievement: ownership of one of the most exclusive bar lounges in the city—The Vault, a secluded getaway salon that promised an experience of privacy and exclusivity, where all secrets revealed over five-hundred dollar bottles of Cognac and contraband Cuban cigars would be locked away from viewing by the ordinary world.
He had proposed meeting her there to impress her. Of course. Like a teenager who wanted to show off his flashy red convertible. He felt like a teenager. Cocky. Arrogant. Invincible. Deep down, he knew he wasn’t. He knew his flaws and what he could and couldn’t change about his lifestyle and his reputation. But on the outside, she offered him an escape—the chance to start with a clean slate and prove he was a man of character and strength rather than simply a greedy opportunist who disregarded the needs of others in favor of his own.
He had tried to prove that today to his ex-wife—and failed. Now, his Contessa offered him a rare second chance.
He approached the bar and sat on the high-back white leather chair.
“The usual tonight, Mr. Zale?” the bartender asked.
“No, Andy. Tonight, I’ll need something stronger. Let’s break out one of the premium, limited edition vodkas,” he replied.
“You got it, sir.” The bartender nodded, slapping his white towel over his shoulder.
Harvey reflected on his request after the bartender disappeared behind the bar’s salt water aquarium backsplash to fulfill the mission. It was a bad habit, drinking hard liquor whenever he was nervous. But if he was really honest with himself, he almost sadistically enjoyed the uncomfortable sensation of being uncertain about tonight. He liked the challenge of facing the unknown and testing his ability to master it. And he loved rolling the dice and placing all his bets on the outcome of finally meeting her. Weeks and weeks of sexting exchanges had fueled his desire for more, there was no going back to where they’d started. And as a gambling man, he knew the odds were against him—the probability of failing hard seemed inevitable. But he also had learned long ago that his best wager and biggest win would always be to bet on himself.
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