Eyes on You (15 page)

“Let’s talk after the show, okay?”

“Two minutes,” the director said. Then thirty seconds. Then we were live. I made myself think only about the segments, connecting with the guests, the energy I needed to summon.

The last segment was on summer concert tours, partly about the outrageous riders many singers had on their contracts. Lady Gaga, for instance, insisted on white leather couches in her dressing room; Kanye West demanded that the person chauffeuring him wear only hundred-percent-cotton clothes; and Mary J. Blige required that the toilet seat be changed before she arrived at each venue. One of our guests at the table was the entertainment reporter from another of the network’s shows, a girl named Hadley who nearly slobbered over Carter, batting her double row of false eyelashes at him.

“If you were a rock star, Robin, what would you put in
your
rider?” Carter asked as we wrapped the show a few minutes later.

“Um, a private chef, I think. Truffles, too. And maybe a massage after every show. What about you?”

“I’ll skip the truffles. That massage sounds good.”

“That’s it?” I asked, smiling.

“I’m a man of simple needs.”

“Oh, I dare say we’ve gotten the sanitized version—for our own protection—but I’ll leave it at that.”

As soon as we’d stood up and unclipped our mics, I turned to Carter, but little Hadley had obviously been biding her time in the wings, and she came rushing toward him. I brushed past both of them and hurried off the set.

Half-way to my office, I stuck my hand in my purse, rummaging for my keys. As directed, I’d locked my office door and closed the outer door to the anteroom.

I rounded the corner—and then froze. Up ahead I could see that the door to the anteroom was open, and light was pouring into the hallway. I caught my breath. It’s the cleaning lady, I told myself.

I moved ahead, almost tiptoeing. As I reached the doorway to the anteroom, I realized that the door to my office was open, too. My heart hurled itself against my rib cage. Someone had managed to unlock the door. I felt my gaze drawn to the floor of the anteroom, to the cheap light gray carpet.

Something dark and wet was streaked across it.

I staggered backward into the corridor. A sound came from the right, and I swung in that direction. The cleaning lady. She was rolling her cart in my direction.

“Did—did you see who was here?” I blurted out.

“Here?” she asked, frowning. “You mean in the hall?”

“No, in my office,” I said. I flung my arm to the left, pointing into the anteroom. I could feel my hand begin to tremble. “Someone’s been in here. And there’s a huge
stain
on the rug.”

Her body stiffened. “I’m very sorry,” she said, not meeting my eyes. “I was cleaning, and there was still coffee in a cup, and I spilled it when I picked it up.”

“But where did you
go
?” I demanded. “And why did you leave my door unlocked?”

She shrugged helplessly. “I just went to the storage room to find the special cleaner.” She tugged a spray bottle from a holster on her cart.

“You can’t
do
that,” I told her. I tried to calm myself, but by now my whole body was trembling. “I need to keep my office locked at night, do you understand? And when you unlock it to clean, you can’t just step away. Please get this stain out, okay? It’s—horrible-looking.”

“Yes, of course,” she said again, still avoiding my eyes. “I will fix it.”

I sighed. “I’m sorry to speak so sharply,” I said. “But—there have been some security issues.”

“Of course,” she said. “Do you want me to clean the stain now or come back?”

“Come back in about two minutes, okay?”

She turned and began to push her cart away. The wheels squeaked as they rolled along the linoleum floor.

I stepped back into the anteroom and flopped against the wall. I felt like I’d tugged at a strand of yarn in a sweater and the thread just kept coming, unraveling whole pieces of the sweater without my being able to stop it. I wrapped my arms around my chest and rocked back and forth.
Sleep, little robin, sleep, little robin.

After a minute I lurched into my own office and grabbed my belongings. I felt overwhelmed with the urge to escape.

But I didn’t want to go home. I couldn’t stand the idea of sitting in my living room, picking at take-out food. I thought of Carter suddenly. Outside the restaurant the other night. The way his touch had made me feel.

I locked up my office, and instead of making a beeline for the elevator, I walked purposely back toward the newsroom. The green room was packed with guests for the current show, and I could hear the drone of their voices as I passed. I made another right and snaked around the outer part of the newsroom. Up ahead, the light from Carter’s office spilled out into the hall. He might still be there. As I approached, he stepped, like magic, into the doorway, reaching for the light switch with a can of Diet Pepsi in his other hand.

“I thought you’d taken off already,” he said, surprised.

“I was just about to,” I said.

“Did something else happen?” he asked, his eyes flashing with concern. My body was still trembling, and I was sure he could see it. He backed into his office a few steps, pulling me with him, and pushed the door partly closed.

“No,” I said. “Not exactly.” I stared into his eyes. “Are you busy right now?”

“I was about to meet a few friends for drinks,” he said, setting the soda can on his desk. “But I can be late.”

“You sure?”

He smiled. “Actually,” he said softly, “I could be very,
very
late.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’d love to just talk for a while.”

He leaned closer, and for a second, I thought he was about to kiss me. Instead, he said, “Let’s get out of here and grab a drink.”

Without even thinking, I closed the gap between us and kissed him hard on that full, luscious mouth. When I pulled back, he ran his fingers slowly along the side of my face.

“I happen to have a fantastic bottle of Bordeaux at my place,” he said. “Why don’t you cancel your car? We can take mine.”

Fifteen minutes later, we were pulling up in front of his building, a prewar on Central Park West. Not what I’d expected. I’d pictured him in something sleek and modern, with walk-in closets and floor-to-ceiling windows that helped convince him that the world was his for the taking. This was the kind of old-style, tony building that law partners lived in.

The doorman nodded as we entered; I waited for his eyes to flicker but they didn’t. Of course not. Carter Brooks arriving home with a woman must be as routine in the building as a delivery from Zabar’s.

“Welcome,” Carter said to me as he opened the apartment door and hit the lights.

Again, unexpected. I would have bet on something bachelor pad–ish. Not Austin Powers/shag carpeting bachelor—Carter was too classy—but spare, just the cool essentials for life on the fast track. This wasn’t anything like that. It was classic in design but decorated with bold contemporary stuff, slightly edgy. And then there was the view. Three windows faced Central Park, directly across the street. It was almost dark out, and the park was dotted with the shimmering lights from lampposts that lined hidden pathways.

“Wow,” I said softly. “But I guess you hear that a lot.”

“I lucked out,” Carter said. “It used to be my parents’ pied-à-terre. But they started coming to the city less and less and turned it over to me.”

“Pretty nice of them.”

“Yeah. I would have traded it for a few compliments about my career over the years, but WASPs have a hard time with that kind of stuff. They tend to show their love by bequeathing real estate and inviting you on bone-fishing trips in the Keys.

“Follow me,” he added. “Wine’s in the kitchen.”

Rather than going for the overhead lights, Carter flicked a switch that turned on a hidden set of spotlights along the bottom of the cabinets, creating soft pools of white on the countertop. Were these his seduction lights? I wondered.

He slid the bottle from a wine cabinet beneath the kitchen island, uncorked it, and poured us each a glass. As I took a sip, savoring the deep, plummy taste, Carter slipped out of his suit jacket. He was wearing a fitted pale blue dress shirt, and even in the soft lighting, I could see the outlines of his taut, muscular chest.

“Something happened tonight,” Carter said, tossing his jacket on a bar stool. “I want to hear about it.”

“It was nothing, really. A misinterpretation on my part.”

He took my right hand in his and rubbed his fingers over the knuckles. “But you were trembling,” he said. “Something clearly upset you.”

“I—I thought there’d been another incident. There was a huge stain on my rug. But it turned out the cleaning lady had just spilled a cup of coffee. I nearly bit the poor woman’s head off.”

“I’m glad you thought that having a glass of wine with me would help.”

I looked into his eyes, locking on them like he liked to do to me. “No. That’s not what I thought.”

“No?” he said. “Tell me, then.”

“I thought having sex with you would help.”

I’d caught him off guard with my comment, and it was a second or two before he broke into an approving smile and set his wineglass down. He cupped my face in his hands. Then he kissed me, pressing me urgently against the edge of the island. Desire flooded through me.

There was still time to change my mind. But I didn’t want to. Right then I couldn’t care less what the rules were. I just needed to drive all the fear from my brain.

Carter ran both hands over my breasts, circling where my nipples were beneath the fabric, and then laid a palm against my groin, pressing. I moaned, overwhelmed with sensation. His fingers were at my mouth next, running back and forth across my lips. Then his hand was at my back, lowering my zipper.

“You aren’t going to take me right here on the granite top, are you?” I asked.

He chuckled. “Oh, you’re giving me far more credit than I deserve,” he said. “Besides, I don’t want anything restricting all the things I’d like to do to you tonight.”

He led me into the bedroom, and we tugged off each other’s work clothes. His body was tanned and perfectly toned. I slid my hand down his torso and began to stroke him. I still had my panties on, and Carter tore them down, caressing me between my legs with his fingers, slowly and rhythmically. So, I thought, he
wasn’t
about all his own pleasure.

“You’re gorgeous, Robin,” he said. “Every inch of you.”

He pulled the comforter off his bed, laid me down on the sheet, and slid alongside me. He fondled my breasts again, taking each in his mouth. As I squirmed in pleasure, he ran his fingers down my body and began to pleasure me between my legs. Then his tongue was there, moving in circles. I felt an orgasm start to build, and then it was exploding, making my body arc. Carter fumbled in a drawer for a condom. Finally, he was inside me, pumping slowly at first and then harder and faster until he came.

Spent, I drifted off to sleep almost instantly, and when I startled awake, I saw from the digital clock on the bedside table that it was after midnight. Next to me, Carter was breathing deeply. I pushed back the sheet that he must have laid over my body and slipped out of bed. I found my dress, flung on a chair, and wiggled into it. I needed to split. And I needed to be absolutely sure no one saw me.

“Hey,” Carter muttered, stirring in bed.

“Go back to sleep,” I said.

“I’m not letting you leave this late.” He propped his head up on his hand. “Besides, I make excellent toast.”

“Carter, there’s no way in the world I’m going to walk out of your apartment in the morning dressed in what I wore on the air the night before.”

“At least let me take you home.”

“Not at this hour, that’s just as bad. I’ll sneak out and grab a cab.”

First, though, I slipped into the bathroom. It was white and spalike, with a row of expensive-looking products and colognes standing at attention across the back of the marble countertop. I ran Carter’s brush through my hair, subduing the bedhead effect. When I reemerged, I saw that he had climbed out of bed and thrown on a pair of sweatpants. He walked me to the door, and, before opening it, pulled me to him and kissed me on the mouth.

“Text me when you get home,” he said.

“Go back to bed,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”

He smiled. “I’m going to do my best not to have a shit-eating grin on my face during the show tomorrow night, but it’ll be hard.”

There was no way I’d permit myself to think that far ahead.

The lobby was empty except for the night doorman, who stepped outside to hail me a cab. He looked like the kind of guy who might not care who the vice president of the country was, let alone that I coanchored a show with one of his tenants.

The cabdriver had the AC off, so I rolled down the window and let the night air blow on me. I grinned, thinking about what I’d done. How’s
that
for not seeming ruffled? I thought, recalling Potts’s admonition.

As soon as I was home, I washed my face, hung my dress, and then crawled quickly into bed. I was still in a mild daze from the sex, and I wanted to float there longer, let it carry me to sleep. In a matter of seconds, I felt fatigue overtake me.

When I woke in the morning, I was hungry for the first time in days. I scrambled eggs and devoured them with two pieces of toast. It was hard not to think of Carter. The feel of his hands and his mouth. When I’d kissed him in his office, I’d been dwelling only on the present, on ridding myself of all the fear and anxiety. I hadn’t wondered once about the next day and where my head would be. Now I knew. I wanted more of what we’d had last night.

I dressed for work, trying to stay with the sense of calm I’d found. But as soon as I settled into the car, dread started to build in me. How many freaking days will I have to wait, I wondered, before they find the person who was torturing me?

The moment I stepped into the anteroom to my office, my eyes went to the floor. The stain was gone, as promised, though the rug buckled slightly from having been soaked with cleaner and water. Just don’t look there, I told myself. Don’t look down.