Every Last Secret(12)

I kissed along his jaw, then whispered in his ear, “And the pom-poms.”

He groaned, the brand of his arousal hot and hard against my hip. “God, I love you.”

I met his kiss, my heartbeat quickening. In the warmth of his hands and the loss of our clothes, I forgot all about our new neighbors.



Eight hours later, after a leisurely breakfast in the gardens and coffee, I drove to the country club and met Kelly on one of the tennis courts. Rolling my neck slowly to the left, then right, I watched as she tossed up and then delivered a serve that could have decapitated a mouse. I lunged right for the ball, missed it by inches, and shot her an impressed look.

“Thanks,” she called out breezily. “I’ve been logging extra lessons with Virgil.”

“It shows.” I scooped up the ball and tossed it over the net toward her, then motioned her to come up closer to practice short shots. “How’s he compared to Justin?”

“Twenty years older, thirty pounds fatter, but Josh doesn’t complain nearly as much, so it’s worth the lack of eye candy.” She tossed up the ball but hit it a moment too early, lobbing an easy target over the net toward me. I met the ball early and quick, snapping it to the far left side of her court. Kelly’s husband was notoriously jealous, the sort who combed over her cell-phone log and popped into our lunch dates to make sure they were legitimate. I wasn’t surprised to hear he’d found fault with Justin O’Shea, the club’s best-looking tennis pro, but Justin was flamingly gay. Virgil could be a toad and he’d still be more of a risk.

“How’s the new neighbor?” She wiped her white-sweatbanded wrist across her forehead.

“Not sure yet.” I bounced a fresh ball against the clay court. “We’re having dinner with them on Thursday. She’s hard to read. A little . . .” I caught the ball and held it for a moment, trying to find the right word. “Reserved. She seems to be studying us very closely.” On our brief stroll through the house, she had seemed to mentally catalog our possessions, as if she were adding up their valuations in her head.

“No offense, but you’re very studyable.” Kelly grinned, her freckles almost bleached by the sun. “Honestly, I don’t even like tennis—I just like seeing what car you’re going to pull up to the club in.”

I made a face and knocked the ball toward her. She hit it back and we volleyed for a good dozen times before she missed a shot. Kelly was good, but I had trained for six months before joining the club, taking daily private lessons in San Francisco and weeklong camps at Stanford. My “natural aptitude” had needed to look effortless, and from the first day at Menlo, it had. I had intentionally lost a few early matches, blushing and stammering through the friendly ribbing, then quietly and almost immediately became the strongest player in the club.

That was the secret to success in this town. Presenting a picture of effortless perfection with behind-the-scenes ruthless hard work. Everyone thought I woke up as Cat Winthorpe one day, but I had clawed and scraped for every piece of this life. Still did.

We played a quick game, then headed for our bags. Kelly turned to face me, her racket swinging loosely from her hand. “Does it bother you, the new neighbor working for William?”

“No.” I dipped, picking up a ball and leaving the others for the collection crew. As I watched, they jogged onto the court, their baskets in hand, all-white uniforms darting to pick up the bright-yellow balls. “Why would it?”

“I don’t know. You and him were a workplace romance . . . she’s in his workplace now.” She shrugged. “There’s a reason I don’t let Josh hire any single women at the office.”

“She’s not single,” I reminded her, coming to stand beside her at the bench. Unzipping the side pocket of my bag, I pulled out a monogrammed hand towel and dabbed at the sweat along my forehead.

“Oh, right. The chubby husband. He’s in construction, right?”

“Demolition.” Which, from my uneducated perspective, seemed to be the easiest of the trades. Smash things down, haul them away. I’d pulled up his company and glanced over their website. It seemed like a small operation, one that couldn’t support the Atherton lifestyle. Which . . . would make for an interesting sideshow. Even if they did get the Baker house for a steal, trying to keep up in this town would burn through their money quickly. And Neena Ryder wanted this lifestyle. I had seen it in her eyes, had heard it in the offhand comments she threw out in an attempt to fit in. She wanted it—the only question was what she would do to attain it. I made a mental note to check with Human Resources and see what we were paying her.

“Well, that’s good that she’s married. Maybe he and Josh could connect. He’s always complaining about the stuffed shirts I make him hang out with.” Kelly tilted back her head and squirted a stream of lemon-infused water into her mouth. “Not William, of course.”

I didn’t respond, well aware she wasn’t talking about my husband. Unzipping the small coin pouch I kept in my bag, I worked my wedding-ring set back onto my finger.

“I’ll plan something,” she continued on, her eyes following a muscular ball boy as he dipped over the net. “Something to get her husband and Josh together. Maybe a going-away party. You know we leave for Colombia on the eighth?”

“I know.” I pulled at her arm. “Come on. Loser buys me breakfast in the club.”