Every Last Secret(5)

“Do I actually need to speak to the Decaters, or was that just a ploy to escape the conversation?” He placed his tumbler on the wide stone railing, and I watched as the night air ruffled his salt-and-pepper hair.

“It was a ploy, but let’s do it anyway, for appearances’ sake.” I started to head back into the party, and his hand wrapped around my wrist, tugging me toward him.

“Stay out here.” He cupped my face in his hands and stared down at me, studying my features. “I’m with the most beautiful woman in the world. Let me enjoy her for a moment.”

I looked up into his eyes and smiled. “I’m here for as long as you want. In fact . . .” I lowered my voice and glanced back at the party. “Let’s ditch this place. If we hurry, we can get to that diner by Stanford that has the apple crisp you like. And if you’re lucky . . .” I bit my bottom lip. “I’ll let you feel me up in the car.”

He chuckled, and that bad-boy glint lit in his eyes. “What about all the guests?”

“The butlers will watch them. And Andi will emcee the silent auction.” I stepped toward the dark end of the balcony, where the steps led down to the gardens. “Come on . . . ,” I teased. “I know where they keep the keys to the Ferrari.”

He caught me just before I sneaked down the stairs and pulled me into his chest, kissing me deeply. I sank into the contact, my hand fisting the front of his tuxedo as I stole a deeper kiss.

There were men you owned.

There were men you borrowed.

And then there were men you took.

I would never let anyone take him from me.





CHAPTER 2

NEENA

There were four-and five-letter words for women like Cat Winthorpe. I stood in our bathroom and stared into the mirror as I plucked a bottle of moisturizer out of the cardboard box beside our sink. My crow’s-feet were deepening, despite the reassurances of my surgeon. I turned my head to one side and examined the lines in my neck, grateful when the skin rolled smoothly and naturally against my throat. No paunching. No pulling. I thought of Cat Winthorpe’s throat, the delicate bob of her chin, the perfect complexion. She had to be thirty-five, tops. Thirty-five and probably still got carded at the grocery store. Not that Cat Winthorpe went to the grocery store.

“What a night.” Matt stood behind me and fumbled with the bow on his tuxedo. His jacket and vest had been abandoned at the door, the items already hung back in their rental bags. “Some place, right?” He wheezed out a breath that smelled of alcohol, and I flinched at the visceral reminder it brought of my father. Matt’s clammy hands pawed at my waist, and I stepped aside.

“Careful with that bow tie,” I said sharply. “You already spilled something on the shirt.” They’d fine us for that stain, probably keep the rental deposit. Unlike him, I’d been careful. My designer dress still had its tags on. I’d be able to return it tomorrow morning for a full refund. I had seen the way Cat Winthorpe’s eyes had swept over the dress, critiquing and comparing it to the others. I had planned ahead to ensure that the brand was appropriate, the price range exorbitant enough. This evening had needed to go smoothly, and it had.

“I can’t get this damn . . .” He tried to look down at the knot, then swayed a little from the effort.

“Here,” I said, softening. “I’ll get it.” I turned to him, not missing the pull of his eyes to my cleavage, the push-up bra offering up my perky and perfect breasts, a recent enhancement courtesy of my last boss. I had been surprised by Cat’s small breasts—a lazy oversight in the maintenance category. In a few years, she’d probably ignore the slight bags that would appear under her eyes. The deepened wrinkles along her forehead. The sag of her skin beneath those underworked arms.

Her husband had certainly noticed my breasts. His gaze had lingered, even as his hand had curled around her waist.

Matt’s eyes glazed over, and he fumbled a limp hand across the top of my cleavage, his thick sausage finger dipping between my breasts as if he were checking the oil on a car. I quickly unknotted his tie and pulled the material apart, working open his shirt buttons with quick efficiency.

I reached back and undid the strap of my bra, letting my new breasts tumble free before him. Turning my head away from his bourbon-heavy scent, I twisted his cummerbund around and undid the cheap buckle. His breath grew shorter as he cupped and massaged the generous D cups, his touch rudimentary but acceptable.

“Tonight?” he gasped hopefully.

I considered the request. It had been weeks since we’d last had sex, the quick event occurring after Matt had, from out of nowhere, put an offer on the Atherton house. Granted, it was a horrible home. Ugly and with a choppy floor plan that was badly out of style, but still. For my cheap husband, it was a huge and unexpected step in the right direction for our social standing and my happiness.

“Yes.” I moved closer, as if in enjoyment of his touch. Matt had been a sexual disappointment early on, one that required me to take care of my own needs. Most recently, I had done so with the explosive but short-lived Ned Plymouth dalliance. I’d had high hopes for that pairing, and I frowned as I placed the cummerbund on the counter, thinking of the lost potential with my former boss.

Matt grunted, his mouth now sucking at my nipples with loud and frantic wet smacks of his lips. I undid his pants and pulled down on the zipper. “Let’s go to the bed.” I injected some husk into my voice, as if I were eager, and not just to get it over with.