Deceptive Innocence (10 page)

“Why’s that?”

“Damned if I know!” Jessica gets to her feet and walks to the window, glaring out at the skyline. “We go through this whole long interview process to find a personal assistant
for me
that
he
likes and then invariably during their first few days on the job he calls them to his office to do some kind of errand—and then they never come back!”

I laugh nervously and cross then uncross my legs. “What happens to them?”

“Perhaps they just can’t stand him. Perhaps they get scared off. Maybe he chops off their heads and throws their bodies in the Hudson. I. Don’t. Know. All I know is that my time has been
wasted
and then we have to interview scores of people again so he can . . . can—”

“Chop off someone else’s head?”

Jessica’s mouth twitches at the corners.

“Wow, your husband’s a regular Henry the Eighth.”

And now the laughter comes—still nervous, a little rueful, but I got her laughing.

“Our last assistant lasted less than a month,” she says once she collects herself. “That’s not usual. It’s always either a few days or it’s years. But Lloyd lasted a few weeks. Of course, in that case I do know what happened. There was an . . . incident. The other two who were with us for a while, they didn’t get in any trouble, and it’s not as if they stole from us or anything—”

“That’s good.”

“—and they certainly performed their duties to satisfaction, but . . .” Her voice fades off as she tries to explain and then settles on waving her hand in the air dismissively. “I don’t know. They just came across as a couple of miscreants. I hated having them in my home. But you . . . you’re different. You don’t seem like . . . like . . .”

“Like a miscreant?”

Again Jessica chuckles, but this time the laugh quickly fades and she puts one hand to her head and the other on the wall to steady herself. “Oh dear, I’m a bit woozy.”

I quickly stand and lead her back to the sofa. Jessica thanks me softly and then stares out the window again. “I’m taking a new . . . medication. I may have gotten the dosage wrong.”

“Happens to the best of us.”

Jessica flashes me a small, grateful smile. “You’re very . . . sweet.”

I suppress a smile. Clearly Jessica is a horrible judge of character. “Like I said, I like you. I’m sorry you’ve had so much trouble with your other assistants.” I place a careful hand on Jessica’s shoulder. “I hope you’ll feel differently about me. I mean . . . okay, I’m never going to be anything close to your equal in
anything.
” I pause, giving room for Jessica to interject with the expected
Now, now, don’t be silly
, but that doesn’t come. As far as Jessica’s concerned the inequality between the two of us is a given.

“I still hope we can be friends, of a sort,” I continue. “Anytime you want to talk . . . well, I’m a great listener. It just feels like you need somebody in your corner. Somebody to
hear
you.”

Jessica’s eyes water a little. She doesn’t say anything, but it’s clear she’s absorbing what I’m saying. She’s welcoming it.

“So tell me, how did you meet Mr. Gable?” I ask. “Was he romantic then—did he sweep you off your feet?”

Jessica folds her hands in her lap and stares at her ring. “It was more like the other way around. Years ago, back when I thought there could be nothing better than being Mrs. Travis Gable, I truly . . . went out of my way for him. I did anything and everything he asked. I . . . proved myself to him. I proved myself worthy of being a Gable.” Jessica giggles softly and shakes her head. “I really did. I’m worthy of all of this. I got everything I deserve.”

I’m silent as my eyes wander around the room. On the wall is a Warhol. On the coffee table is a Waterford crystal vase. The rug is something obscenely expensive, I’m sure. I turn back to Jessica’s profile. Her skin is perfect, the product of regular facials, chemical peels, and monthly microdermabrasions. Is this really the price Jessica thinks she deserves to pay for sending my mother to her death?

I reach out, take Jessica’s hand in mine. “You’re wrong, Mrs. Gable. You deserve so much more than this.”

Jessica’s lip begins to tremble as her fingers link through mine. “Do you think so?”

“I do,” I respond, smiling.

The sad woman looks into my eyes wonderingly.

“I’m not going to sleep with your husband,” I continue. “But it does appear that I’m going to be working with him a lot, and I’m going to try to help him see things differently. I promise you, Mrs. Gable, I’m going to do everything I can to change your life.”

“You’re so nice,” Jessica breathes. “No one is ever nice to me anymore . . . except for Mercedes, and she’ll outgrow that in time, just like Braden did. Oh!” She pulls her hand away and covers her mouth as if shocked by her own behavior. “I’m being so inappropriate. I’m sorry, I’m not . . . not myself this morning.”

Really? It’s out of character for you to be fucked-up by ten a.m.?

“You’re just talking, Mrs. Gable. You’re talking to someone who wants to listen.”

Jessica exhales, the kind of exhale that suggests a person has been holding their breath for a very,
very
long time. “Thank you, thank you so much, Bell.”

“Oh, trust me, it’s my pleasure, Mrs. Gable.”

• • •

I spend the
morning doing little tasks for Jessica. I send responses to invitations to various events, I send out Evites for a fund-raiser Jessica is throwing for a politician her husband is fond of, and then I address engraved invitations for Mercedes’s third birthday party.

Jessica’s in and out. She has a manicure scheduled and then she stops by her dermatologist’s office for a Juvéderm touch-up. It’s tempting to post on the forums I’ve signed her up for while she’s out, but of course I can’t risk it. It’s important that she be near her computer when I’m using her identity to post things. Can’t have a timestamp online contradict an alibi from someone else in real time. But now, when she’s home, she sits in the same room as me, tells me about the other women who are on the board for the symphony—all absolutely awful, according to her—and the woman who lives on the floor beneath them, who is always nice to Jessica when Travis is around, but rude to her when he’s not. I don’t mind. The forums and emails can wait. Right now I’m just grateful for her confidence.

She talks about how Travis is the one who picks up her pills at the pharmacy. She talks about how that’s the one kindness he still extends to her. Well, that and the fact that he gives her a big enough clothing allowance to buy out Bergdorf Goodman.

She talks about how she knows Travis isn’t faithful but that she’s learned to turn the other cheek . . . for the sake of the children.

Translation: She knows that if it comes down to a custody battle, she’ll lose. And, in addition to that, her access to the prescription meds she’s now addicted to might be cut off. So she sucks it up and tries to ignore the constant humiliations her marriage subjects her to.

I cluck my tongue, offer soothing words of comfort, and stock up the bits and pieces of information like so much ammunition.

It’s well into the afternoon when Travis calls and asks for me.

Jessica hands me the phone, her hand shaking, her eyes downcast, studying the ground. I press the receiver to my ear while trying to give Jessica an encouraging smile, if only she would look at me.

“Mr. Gable,” I say lightly, careful to keep any notes of flirtation out of my voice. “How can I help you?”

“Is my wife driving you crazy? Has she done anything stupid yet?”

“No, Mr. Gable.”

“Don’t lie to me. It’s almost four; she must have humiliated herself at least five times today.” He laughs as if he’s just told a particularly good joke. “Tomorrow I want you to come to my office at HGVB.”

“All right. Tomorrow morning Mrs. Gable requested I deliver—”

“I don’t care what she wants you to deliver. She has feet and a limo at her disposal. She can deliver it herself. Tomorrow I want you here. Who is it that pays your salary, Bell?”

“You do, Mr. Gable.”

“So then it’s rather important that you please me, isn’t it?

“It is.”

“Good girl. Be here at nine thirty a.m.”

The phone goes dead and after a moment I gently place it back in Jessica’s hand. Jessica, who still won’t meet my eyes.

“He wants me to do something for him at HGVB.”

“‘He wants you to do something
for him
,’” Jessica repeats, spitting out the words.

“Just business,” I assure her. “He won’t touch me, I promise you that.”

Jessica looks up, meets my eyes, and then smiles . . . and then laughs. She laughs so hard that for a moment I worry she’s going to choke.

“It’s ridiculous,” Jessica finally manages. “Ridiculous that you should have to promise me that. Ridiculous that I should have to ask!”

She walks away from me, sits down on the settee. “The Gable men are highly intelligent individuals. My husband was first in his class at Princeton. His father says he could have been a chess master if he had put his mind to it. His brother too . . . although Lander was always more into Scrabble, anagrams, crossword puzzles, things like that. Used to create crossword puzzles too. Three of them were published in the
New York Times
 . . . although none of them made the Sunday paper. These men, their minds absorb information and knowledge like sponges . . . but their hearts . . . nothing gets inside there. Nothing at all.”

I don’t say anything; there’s nothing really to say.

Jessica’s lower lip starts to quiver. “And will you come back, Bell?” she asks. Her voice is soft, almost pleading. “When Travis starts using my assistants—”

“I’m coming back,” I assure her. “I’m not going to be one of those assistants who lasts only a day.”

“You promise?”

“Oh yes,” I say sweetly. “I’m the kind of girl who sees things through.”

chapter fourteen

I
surprise Lander
by showing up at his doorstep with grocery bags full of food. It’s not that he wasn’t expecting me; it’s that he thought we were going out.

“Why would we do that?” I ask with a laugh as I breeze past him, into the kitchen. “We have everything we need right here.” I start unloading the bags. “I make the most amazing lasagna you’ll ever taste.”

“Lasagna?”

I turn to him with a wide smile and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling myself close to him. “Mexican lasagna. It’s kinda spicy. You think you can handle it?”

He smiles, kisses my forehead. “I can handle anything you can dish out.”

“Lucky me.” My intention was to just give him one little flirtatious hug before turning to dinner, but now, in his arms, I don’t really want to pull away. I think about the coldness that emanates from Travis. His voice could give you frostbite. His touch, hypothermia. But Lander always runs somewhere between warm and hot. Being with him is like lying out in the sun. It feels so good it burns you.

I try to remember what he looked like when he was beating that man in the bar. I try to remember the hidden viciousness. But sometimes it’s hard, like right now, while I’m in his arms.

“You said you wanted to make love to me in every room in my home.”

“I did say that.” I kiss his neck lightly. “Maybe that’ll be our dessert.”

“There are a lot of rooms. Maybe it can be our appetizer too.” He lifts me up, places me on the counter, next to the extra virgin olive oil and red chili powder.

“Aren’t you hungry?” I ask teasingly.

“Starving.” He bites down lightly on my shoulder.

I thread my fingers through his hair, then grab on to it and pull him back so he’s looking at me. With slow, languid movements I stretch out my legs, then wrap them around him. I move my hands from his hair to his cheeks, cupping his face. “Would you like to fuck me, Lander?”

“I would,” he says with a brightly lit smile. “I would like to fuck you, Bell.”

I laugh. Only Lander can make the word
fuck
sound like romance. I think about that drawing he made of me.
Kind, Witty Heroine.

It’s not who I am. But right now I want to pretend. Pretending is part of my plan.

It’s also part of my pleasure.

I lower my mouth to his, my hair enveloping us both.

I think of Jessica, married to a man who can’t even pretend to like her.

But here I am, pretending to fall in love with a man who is pretending to be good.

I pull off his tie and drop it in the sink.

“Hey!”

I shrug as I pull off his jacket. “It’s ugly and you’re rich. Buy a new one.”

“Well, aren’t you sassy today?”

“I’m sassy every day.” I throw his jacket across the room. “If you’re just noticing now, you haven’t been paying attention.”

“Trust me, I’ve been paying attention.” He pulls off my jacket. “For instance, I know that you like it when I kiss you here.” He kisses the base of my neck, sucking slightly, making little circles with his tongue.

“Oh please,” I breathe. “Everybody likes to be kissed there.”

“And here.” His tongue flicks across that little hollow spot atop my collarbone.

“Less obvious, I admit,” I concede as I pull his belt from him and wrap it around my hand.

“Hmm, here.” He leans into me, gently biting down on my nipple through the fabric of my shirt.

“A lot of women have sensitive breasts. That’s to be expected,” I whisper as I wriggle against him.

“True.” He pulls my shirt from me and his lips find the delicate skin inside my elbow, sucking it gently.

I breathe in, close my eyes. Who knew that was a “spot”?

Lander . . . Lander knew. He’s learning my body like a geographer learns the landscape, testing it, feeling it, mapping it out to ease his future travels.

“And you like it when I pull your clothes off you slowly,” he adds. “Like this.” He pulls my skirt down my legs, so that the fabric rubs against my skin.

“Take off the rest of your clothes,” I instruct.

I sit and watch as he removes his shirt, his pants, as he stands before me naked and beautiful . . . so strong . . . and so surprisingly vulnerable. That dominant man I slept with on that first night isn’t here right now. This man is playful, sweet . . .

. . . and sexy as hell.

Lander is such a versatile actor.

I stay on the counter as I remove my bra, slowly at first, and then I rip it off, swing it over my head, and throw it toward his jacket.

“Very pretty,” he says, his eyes lingering on my curves, the smile on his mouth a little wistful, a little mischievous. “You do know you’re not done.”

I pucker my lips teasingly and then slip my thumbs into the waistband of my panties and wriggle out of them as he watches closely.

He’s getting harder.

“My beautiful warrior.” He gently lifts my chin. “You’re mesmerizing.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re going to have to come out of your trance.” I uncurl the belt, swing it over the wide part of his back, and use it to pull him to me. “I want you
now.
”

His mouth spreads into a grin as his hands grab my thighs. With hard-won flexibility and grace I uncurl my legs and put one over each of his shoulders so now I’m in a perfect V.

“Did you not understand me when I said ‘now’?” And with that I pull again on the belt, drawing him even closer. In an instant I feel him pressing against me and then inside of my walls.

He groans as I lean back, using the belt to support myself. “Do you know how good you feel?” he asks.

I answer by pulling harder on the belt, bringing him closer, deeper, feeling his bare skin against mine, nothing separating us. He’s so deep now, he’s filling the emptiness I’ve lived with for so very long.

He doesn’t have to ask me to look into his eyes tonight. Tonight I don’t want to look anywhere else.

I’m pretending, of course . . . I’m an actress swept up in a role. It doesn’t have to be real, it can’t be. But tonight I’m losing myself in the fantasy. That’s my decision, my choice.

He pulls the belt away from me and I wrap my legs around his waist again as he lifts me off the counter. Still buried deep inside, he pushes me up against a wall, holding on to my thighs, keeping my hips against his as he starts to thrust again. His face is right against mine; we’re so close that he’s a bit of a blur as I cling to him, feel him, every inch of him. I lower my legs so they’re now wrapped around his and squeeze with my thighs, making myself tighter, feeling the friction of his movement.

That’s all it takes. The orgasm rolls through me and I cling to him as he pulls me down onto him with increasing force.

Again he lifts me up, this time breaking our connection as I protest. He sits down on a kitchen chair, pulling me onto his lap. I immediately straddle him, pressing him inside again. My breasts are pressed against his chest, my mouth on his. Using my legs I push myself up and down, savoring our connection and the tension. I feel his every breath, smell the hints of his cologne as I increase my pace. I can see what I’m doing to him, feel what he’s doing for me. I’m holding on to him so tightly you would think I was drowning.

Maybe I am in a way.

I increase my speed again, and that’s when Lander reaches between us and toys with my clit.

Which sends me over the edge. I cry out, my face pressed against his as he comes inside me at the same time.

For a moment we just stay there, pressed against each other, our foreheads touching as we both try to catch our breath.

“Lander,” I whisper.

“Yes?”

“Is this the way you’re greeting all your dates these days?”

“No, Bell, just you.”

Just me
.

I wish that didn’t sound so wonderful.

• • •

Twenty minutes later
we’re both dressed and the skillet’s on the stove. Lander’s putting on his coat because I forgot to bring the onions. I’ve also convinced him that some Coronas and limes would be a nice addition. I talk him out of calling his driver for this even though it’s about a ten-minute walk to the grocer. Everybody deserves a night off.

He kisses me on the cheek before he leaves. “I like this,” he says quietly.

“What? Kissing?”

“You’re cooking, I’m getting groceries. It feels . . . nice.”

I laugh. It’s so domestic. So sappy sweet.

It makes me smile.

I watch him leave, almost wishing I hadn’t purposely left the onions at home.

When I’m sure he’s gone, I go into his office and head straight for his desk. There in the top drawer is his sketch of the biker. I start to push it aside to look to see what else is in there when something about the picture stops me.

It’s the biker’s face. His expression seems worried . . . even scared. It isn’t the look of a man who is angry or of someone who
Cries in Rebuke
, per the title.

I look at the title again. I remember how carefully Lander selected it. He didn’t exactly come up with a phrase. He seemed to come up with each word individually, as if he were solving a puzzle rather than naming an image.

“Lander was always more into Scrabble, anagrams, crossword puzzles, things like that.”

Word games . . . Lander plays word games. I study the title again before grabbing a blank piece of printer paper and a pen and getting to work.

It takes me several minutes, but eventually I get it.

C.R.I.E.S. I.N. R.E.B.U.K.E. . . . it’s an anagram. It’s an anagram for INSECURE BIKER.

And if
that’s
an anagram . . .

I put the picture back and open the drawer where he keeps his sketchbook. I find it on top of some insurance papers for various artworks, a fountain pen that’s probably worth upward of five hundred dollars, his passport, and his social security card—a number I memorized over a year ago.

I flip open the book and start with the picture of the woman with the dollar signs in her eyes and the diamond-collared dog,
Dogged Girl.

I almost laugh. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.

D.O.G.G.E.D. G.I.R.L.

Switch those letters around and you get GOLD DIGGER.

Anagrams.

I flip to the picture of the politicians drawn to look like marionettes. It’s titled T.H.R.U.S.T.I.N.G. S.P.E.L.L
.

At least that’s what he wrote. It takes a while, but eventually I get PULL THE STRINGS.

Giddily I flip to the page with the drawing of the crying woman, clinging to the pant leg of the crowned man. A. C.A.D. F.E.E.L.S. S.P.E.W.I.N.G. S.O.R.R.O.W
.

This one isn’t so easy. I sit hunched over the desk, writing out different possibilities. Maybe one of the words is
ee
l
 ?
Pew
 ?
Ra
d
 ? Three minutes pass, then five. I have PRINCESS but I’m not sure that’s right. Still, with the guy wearing the crown and all, maybe he’s king and the crying woman is a princess? But I can’t come up with the word
king
from this anagram.

Princess of . . . Could she be a princess
of
something? Of what?

I’m getting a little frustrated now. Lander draws these pictures and creates these anagrams when he’s working out something in his head, when he’s thinking things through . . . and I sense that of all the pictures this one will offer me the insight into his mind that I really need. I could do this later but now that I’m in the middle of it I want to finish working out this puzzle
now
. I feel like I’m on the brink of something here.

My mind runs through all the things I know about Lander. Which is a lot. Perhaps too much for it to be useful. I look at the woman again, at the man. I can’t see the face of either person, but the woman has her hair in a French braid down her back. Not very many women wear their hair like that anymore . . .

. . . but Lander’s mother did. I’ve seen pictures.

“But the people who live in places like this . . . They’re a little like royalty, aren’t they? They’re treated like kings and queens, princes and princesses,”
I had said.

And he responded . . .

“Yes, my mother was treated like the dowager princess of Wales.”

I work with the letters and there it is: DOWAGER PRINCESS OF WALES. His mother the dowager princess. And the man . . . That must be his father.

It gives me pause. I’m going to have to think about what that means . . . research it. But now something else has caught my eye. Peeking out from under those insurance papers is the drawing of me.

I pull it out and study the picture with new eyes.

Why
did
he put me in period dress? And the dress is so . . . so
specific
.

Kind, Witty Heroine
is the title
.

I start to work with the words, writing out every possibility. NOWHERE
—
no, that doesn’t make sense. KID,
but there’s no child in the picture.

One minute passes, then two, then three . . . I’m not making progress.

Until I look at the costume again. I look at my position . . . I look at my
hair
, swept up in a low bun, loose enough to reveal my waves. Again it just looks so familiar, and I
know
it has something to do with history. The problem with having studied so many of Lander’s interests over the last few years is that all that new information is crammed into my head and getting mixed up. If I remember the name of a battle, I forget the date or vice versa. And to be honest, the battles themselves are of less interest to me than the people who waged them. During my studies I found that the women of World War I and World War II were much more interesting than the men. The sly strategies they employed in order to survive while still advancing their cause . . . well, it’s just something I can relate to. Like Virginia Hall, a civilian woman who trained battalions of the French Resistance and gathered intelligence on their enemies. She successfully became a master of disguise in order to fool the Germans, even going so far as to train herself not to walk with a limp despite her prosthetic leg. And conversely, in World War I there was Mata Hari . . .