A Matter of Trust (6 page)

And then she was too engrossed to talk.

*

Michael could scarcely remember two hours that she had ever enjoyed more. She wasn’t certain what was more entertaining—the costumes, the music, or the genuinely talented performers. To her amazement, the voices of the half dozen or so female impersonators were marvelous. Throughout the show, she was aware of Sloan beside her, laughing softly at some joke, applauding enthusiastically for every performer, and bending close during breaks in the entertainment to fill her in on some of the background of the Cabaret. Once, she had disappeared for a few moments and returned with a fresh drink for Michael, setting it before her with a warm smile. She was considerate, attentive, and altogether charming. Michael had never met anyone quite like her.

As the lights came up, Michael found herself pressed against Sloan at the tiny table. The noise level had not abated, and if anything, the raucous crowd had become even more celebratory as the evening progressed. She and Sloan had to lean almost forehead to forehead to hear each other.

“Well, what did you think?” Sloan inquired, her eyes alight with enjoyment.

“It was amazing,” Michael replied enthusiastically. “They sound wonderful, and they’re so beautiful to look at. The costumes are gorgeous, too. They remind me of birds of paradise.”

“The flowers?”

“Yes.”

Sloan laughed. “I’ll have to remember to tell Jasmine. She’ll love that.”

At the sound of Jasmine’s name, Sarah leaned forward to join their conversation. “Jasmine has a wonderful singing voice, don’t you think,” she declared, more a statement than a question.

“She’s incredible,” Michael agreed.

Sloan caught the tone of admiration in Sarah’s voice and saw that her face was flushed with pleasure, her eyes bright with excitement. Her friend appeared altogether effervescent, and Sloan had a feeling that she knew why.

Six weeks before, she had brought Sarah to the Cabaret for the first time, and since that night, Sarah had been at every one of Jasmine’s performances. Sarah’s eyes never left Jasmine, whether Jasmine was onstage or enjoying a drink with them at their table after the show. The attraction was unmistakable, and Sloan was worried. She knew for a fact that Jasmine never saw anyone socially outside of the club and wondered if Sarah really appreciated Jasmine’s story. She said nothing, however, for she made a point never to involve herself in the personal affairs of other people, particularly her friends.

At that moment, the subject of their conversation appeared from the hallway behind the stage, threading her way carefully between the crowded and disorderly tables toward them. Sloan gallantly rose and offered her chair at the table. Jasmine thanked her with a quick kiss on the mouth. Sloan couldn’t help but grin, rubbing off the faint smudge of lipstick with her finger.

“I’m so glad all of you stayed,” Jasmine said, taking the offered seat. She crossed her legs, the hem of her dress riding up to expose trim smooth legs beneath sheer stockings. A stiletto-heeled satin shoe dangled from her foot. “You all looked as if you’re having such fun, and I didn’t want to miss a minute of it.”

“We were just saying how wonderful your performance was,” Sarah remarked, her attention totally focused on Jasmine.

As Sloan pulled over another chair from a nearby table and settled again next to Michael, she was certain she saw Jasmine blush, even in the dim light of the smoky room.

“I’m Jasmine,” the performer said slowly, extending her hand to Michael. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“Michael Lassiter. And yes, I did, very much.”

Sloan smiled, pleased that Michael was having a good time. She was still surprised at herself for having impetuously invited her. It wasn’t something she generally did—inviting near-total strangers, particularly straight married strangers, out on the town. She’d just had the feeling, while working in that cold, glass-enclosed high-rise office late on a Friday night, that Michael Lassiter was lonely. Why exactly she should care was another question altogether, and not something she wanted to consider too closely. The fact that she was very aware of Michael’s arm against her own at the crowded table was also making her uncomfortable. She glanced at her watch and saw that it was after 1:00 a.m.

With something close to relief, Sloan said to Michael, “It’s getting late. Would you like me to drive you back to your office, or may I take you home?” It wasn’t until she had said it that she realized it might be misinterpreted as an invitation to something more personal. Hastily, she amended, “I mean...if you don’t feel like driving, I could drop you anywhere you like.”

Michael smiled faintly, pretending not to notice Sloan’s discomfort. “Actually, I took the train into the city this morning. At this hour, I’m going to need a cab.”

“Nonsense,” Sloan said firmly, ignoring the quick rush of pleasure that accompanied the thought of a few more minutes with the lovely new client. “I’ll take you home. It’s no trouble at all. Are you ready?”

Michael glanced over and saw Sarah and Jasmine engaged in animated discussion, Sarah’s hand resting lightly on Jasmine’s forearm. Most of the patrons had begun making their way toward the door, and with some regret, she realized that the evening had come to an end. “Yes, of course,” she said, quickly rising.

They called good night to Sarah and Jasmine and got rather absent-minded waves as the two of them continued their intense conversation with scarcely a break. Sloan smiled at her two friends and lightly took Michael’s hand to lead her through the crowd.

“They seem to be very good friends,” Michael remarked casually as she and Sloan stepped out into the street. She was still holding Sloan’s hand, and it was surprisingly strong—smooth and warm against her skin. It wasn’t at all unpleasant, that firm, sure touch.

“They just met not long ago,” Sloan informed her, “but they hit it off right away.” She didn’t ordinarily discuss Jason and Jasmine’s connection. That was for Jason to reveal, and, although she thought Michael might understand, she redirected the conversation to a safer topic. “I’m really glad that you enjoyed the show.”

As she spoke, she released her grip on Michael’s fingers, disengaged the alarm on the Carrera with her remote, and opened the passenger door for her guest.

“Oh, I did,” Michael replied, settling into the front seat and then strapping on her seat belt. She shifted in the seat so she could face Sloan as they drove. “Thank you for inviting me.”

For a moment, Sloan was uncomfortable, very aware that only the day before Michael had contracted her to do a job, and that she didn’t know her very well. Usually when she was alone with a woman, she felt a little more certain of her moves. Tonight had been different. Michael Lassiter was not someone with whom to indulge in a casual dalliance. Sloan had a feeling that Michael wouldn’t even know the rules.

Glancing at her passenger, she was surprised anew by her quiet elegance and composure. Grinning, she said, “Sorry if the evening took you a little by surprise.”

“Not at all.” Michael laughed. “Once I figured out that most of the beautiful women were men, and many of the handsome ones were really women, I wasn’t confused in the slightest.”

“Well, that’s the first time I ever heard it put quite that way, but it does seem to sum it up.” She added without thinking, “Except for you. You’re very beautiful, and most definitely not a man.”

Michael stared, her skin flushing hot at the compliment. If Nicholas had ever called her beautiful, he’d never said it in exactly that tone. There was something slightly sensuous in the way Sloan said it. Watching the moonlight flicker across the other woman’s face, she realized at that moment that “handsome” was exactly the right word for J. T. Sloan. Lean and well muscled, with features too chiseled to be anything but androgynous, she was not exactly masculine, but “beautiful” was not a strong enough word for her attractiveness either. When Michael realized she was staring, she forced her gaze away.

“Thank you,” she said softly, not knowing what else to say.

“You’re welcome,” Sloan replied just as softly, surprised at her own uncensored admission, and even more surprised by how inadequate the words seemed. “Beautiful” did not come close to describing Michael Lassiter. Most disturbing of all was that she had no words for how good being with her made her feel.

As the Carrera hurtled through the night, she was very aware of her companion and sensed the awareness was mutual, but neither of them broke the silence. Eventually they entered one of the older, wealthier sections of the city, and Michael directed Sloan to her home.

When they pulled into the circular drive in front of a large stone mansion, Michael was strangely disappointed. She glanced up at the familiar edifice and realized how cold and impersonal it now seemed. Lights were lit in strategic windows, turned on and off at irregular intervals by the electronic timer. This gave the semblance of an inhabited home, when in fact she and Nicholas were rarely there at the same time. Often, their separate business obligations took them in opposite directions across the country for policy or marketing meetings. Days would pass when one or both of them were out of town, or they would simply be coming and going at different times.

They rarely shared a bed, and she noted with relief that his Ferrari was not in the drive. She also realized for the first time how much she did not want to lie down next to him and wondered why she hadn’t felt it sooner. They had been estranged emotionally for years.

Sloan came around the front of the car and opened the passenger door. “I was planning on spending some time in your offices tomorrow,” she said as Michael stepped out. “Can you notify security in the morning and let them know to expect me—just in case the guy on the day shift is a little more cautious than the one tonight?”

“You don’t need to worry about that. I’ll be there working. Just tell him to call up for verification when you come in if there’s any question.”

Ignoring the slight surge of pleasure that the thought of seeing Michael in the morning provoked, Sloan simply nodded. “Good night, then, Ms. Lassiter,” she said, her deep voice oddly husky. She resisted the strong urge to brush her fingers across Michael’s cheek.

Michael hesitated for a moment, leaning forward almost imperceptibly, drawn by the quiet intensity of Sloan’s tone. Finally, she simply smiled and walked away.

Sloan climbed back into her car, but she did not drive off until the massive front door had closed firmly, eclipsing Michael Lassiter’s figure. Even then, the memory of that parting smile lingered in her mind.

At 9:00 the next morning, Sloan walked down the brightly lit, cavernous central corridor of Michael’s high-tech corporate complex. Small warrens of offices, conference rooms, and lounges branched off the main hallway at irregular intervals. The passage terminated on the east side of the building, with Michael’s corner suite occupying a large part of that section. A woman stood behind a large horseshoe-shaped reception desk sorting through a deep file cabinet, her back to Sloan.

“Excuse me,” Sloan called, assuming that this was Michael’s secretary. “Ms. Lassiter is expecting me.”

The woman turned and uttered a small startled cry, her eyes wide. A faint blush stole across her attractive features. “Oh my God. Sloan. What are you doing here?”

“Hello, Angela,” Sloan replied calmly, hiding her astonishment with a cool expression. “I’m working.” Hopefully that explanation would suffice. She wasn’t certain exactly how much Michael had confided with members of her staff about her plans to restructure the company, and she didn’t want to go into detail. “I didn’t realize that you work here.”

“Considering that I haven’t talked to you in almost two and a half years, how would you know?” A slightly bitter smile tugged at Angela’s lips. “Of course, you were never particularly interested in the details of my life, even before. As I recall, your
interests
were somewhat more limited.”

Sloan thought she probably deserved that jibe, considering that she had rather abruptly ended her liaison with Angela Striker. They had dated a few times after meeting at a local political event. Angela, however, demanded a degree of exclusivity from her romantic partners that Sloan found impossible to provide. At the time, she’d thought the better part of valor was to end the relationship quickly before both of them regretted it.

Nevertheless, she said nothing now. She’d learned over the years that attempting to defend her actions where bruised egos and dashed dreams were concerned was futile. It was simply easier to let others believe that she didn’t care.

“So, is she ready for me?” She indicated the closed door behind Angela.

“I don’t know. Let me check with her and see.” Angela knew she probably looked as irritated as she sounded. Nothing had changed. Sloan always was good at deflecting anything personal by using work as an excuse.

A minute later, Sloan strode once again across the wide expanse of luxurious office space toward Michael, who was looking casual that morning in beige slacks and a cashmere V-neck pullover of darker rust. Sloan tried hard to ignore the subtle signs that Michael wasn’t wearing anything of substance underneath the delicate sweater.

“Hi,” she said, absurdly pleased to see her.

Michael smiled in welcome. “Good morning.”

Sloan deposited her briefcase next to the computer console, then glanced over her shoulder at Michael. “Have you been here long?”