For All the Wrong Reasons (45 page)

He was going to jump before he was pushed. Paul Gammon's switching off his mike was reason enough. Ernie yanked out the laptop from the back of the limo and hurriedly started to type. If he was fast, he could be back on the Concorde by tomorrow. Friday at the latest.

There was a silver lining to the cloud, though. That grasping bitch Felicity would be out of his life. She'd been rubbish when the going got … a little bumpy.

As the limo pulled out onto Broadway, it struck Ernie that Diana would have handled it differently. If she'd had the good sense to stay married to him. It was sad the way she had declined since he dumped her. Once, she'd known how to spend money and look good … bring a man a touch of class. Real class, the kind that Felicity would never have. But now she was a feminist harridan,
a career girl,
he sneered to himself. Pretending she knew about publishing, about computer games. They had announced her new earnings in the
Wall Street Journal
without comment.

Unbelievable. Could it possibly be that she took herself seriously?

*   *   *

The apartment was empty when he got home. Crispin Morrell, his lawyer in London, was already hunting out prospects. Ernie's resignation was in. He wanted to rifle through his papers and check out the size of his golden parachute. A million or two. Nothing spectacular. He envisaged the immediate loss of the jet, the driver, all the sweet little perks that went with being chairman of Blakely's. Not even his PR girls were available to issue a refutation of Michael Cicero, because they belonged to Blakely's.

“Felicity?” he shouted. But she wasn't there, of course. She was probably out at Tiffany's.

He quickly called the bank and cancelled her charge card. At least there was one area of his life, Ernie thought viciously, that he still had some control over.

He hated Cicero. Bitter, vengeful, interfering little punk. Ernie wallowed in self-pity. The thought that this guy was fucking Diana caused him nothing but pain. Ernie walked to his bar and poured himself a large Scotch. Diana was frigid, of course. A dreadful lay. But she'd been an excellent wife otherwise.

He knocked back the liquor and thought about her. Her curves weren't to his taste, but she had her admirers: the press loved her, the socialites buzzed about her. And she had dated Brad Bailey. He was serious money. I respect that, Ernie thought, maudlin. He reached for the Scotch. It blurred the edges of his stress, and bathed everything in a calmer, more golden light.

After another glassful he walked deliberately upstairs to Felicity's bedroom. The bitch had a Rolodex with more information on people than the CIA. She was a jealous little madam. She was bound to have something on Diana.

*   *   *

“OK. Yeah. I'm watching it, I'm watching it now. Thanks, Selina.”

Tina slammed the receiver back in its cradle and switched her remote to NY One, the local access channel. Since her breakup from Michael, every girl she knew had been calling up with condolences, which was more sour than sweet of them, she thought. Now Selina Gonzales was giving her a heads-up about Michael and the limey bitch coming out of some meeting. Fascinated and infuriated, Tina curled her long, smooth legs underneath her and stared at the mob of guys in suits pressing around her baby and that slut as they stood together on the sidewalk. Diana was handing something out. Papers. It looked like she was giving away free lottery tickets or something, the way those boys were crushing her. Piqued, Tina couldn't see what Diana was wearing. She always liked to criticize her clothes, with those tits, always dressing so conservative, so boring. Michael was a fuddy-duddy when it came to showing skin. Though after hours he had never objected to seeing all of hers.

She caught a glimpse of sleek black limos parked behind the crowd. Damn. That was the world of money and power Tina had always wanted to enter. By Michael's side she could have done it. What the hell was this guy saying?

She flicked up the volume.

“… business scandal of the year … investors seem to be discounting the personal motivation behind this attack … investors in an uproar here.”

“And Mr. Foxton fired Mr. Cicero a year ago, correct?”

“That's right, Jim, some time ago. While Ms. Verity, who heads up Cloud Nine, a new starter that's making waves in the book world, is actually his former wife, and was divorced by Mr. Foxton in a messy high-society scandal,” the reporter said, almost licking his lips.

Tina picked up the dog-eared copy of the
National Enquirer
that was lying on her gold faux-satin coverlet and smiled. Maybe there
was
still a way to get back at that bitch. She had an idea.

*   *   *

“We have two choices.”

Michael turned to Diana and put his hands on her waist, tugging the silk shirt loose so he could put his hands directly on her skin. It was amazing, he thought, how he just could not fuck this girl enough. With the others, it had always been the case that his enthusiasm drained before they had finished their first cup of coffee in the morning. Now, he needed to remember to get enough condoms. A couple of three-packs wouldn't cut it anymore.

He felt the instant, helpless leap of her skin. He decided he wouldn't let her wear lined bras anymore, that way he could actually see her nipples tightening.

“And what are they?” Diana asked, blushing and looking down. Michael always set her off balance. He put himself in her space, he stared right in her eyes. The blazing intensity he had at his work he directed right at her. She wondered if she was a horribly retro creature. She found his muscles, his physical strength, the size of him, his dominance over her, incredibly exciting. Michael didn't beg for sex like other men she had known. He just took. And the paradox was she wanted him. When he pushed her back on the bed, she was already ready.

“We could go out to dinner and celebrate. Somewhere fancy. Your kind of place. Lutèce. Four Seasons.”

“Or…”

“Or I could call for takeout and we could go to bed.”

“I vote for the second option,” Diana whispered.

“Somehow I thought you would,” Michael said. He slid her tight, pencil skirt up over her full, firm hips, stroking her butt, and traced his initials over the silken hair of her groin with his finger. Diana shivered and offered him her mouth. Michael pressed his lips on hers, kissing her roughly. His hands came up and palmed her breasts, lightly, over the silk cups of her bra.

“Still clothed?” Michael demanded. “What's the problem? We don't have all day here.”

“I'm sorry—” Diana gasped. She struggled out of the jacket and bra. Didn't he realize who he was talking to? Wasn't he put off by her accent, her class, her elegance? She loved the way Michael just didn't give a fuck. He loved her for her, and ripped the trappings off her the way he liked to tear off her thin lace panties. She had learned to keep an emergency supply in a case here, because Michael had no respect for her wardrobe whatsoever.

“Too late,” he said softly. He pulled off her skirt and thong panties and picked her up, flinging her over his shoulder. They didn't make it to the bed.

FORTY-TWO

Tina walked a little more slowly than usual. She was getting used to her brand-new heels, for one thing, four inches of shiny scarlet leather wrapped around a steel spike that thrust up her ankle, jutted out her barely-there butt, and made her slim hips swing slightly as she minced along, trying to ignore the pain in her toes. After all, she did look great. No pain, no gain. This way, as she inched down Madison Avenue, she could stop and admire her reflection in every designer boutique window she passed. She had on a fire-red Versace suit, as subtle as a brick, thigh-high, with a military-cut jacket with gaudy gold buttons. Her lips were blood red, too, and her eyelashes thick with navy mascara. Her long blond hair tumbled down her back in a shower of gold that caught the light. Men and women stopped to rubberneck. Well, hell, Tina thought, she was glad she'd given them something to gape at. Just last week
Harper's
said red was the new neutral. Which meant she was only blending in.

A cloud of Chanel No. 5 wafted along with her as she turned into the small building on the corner of Fortieth Street. The revolving door and gray slate fronting really didn't do it justice; these were the offices of
Big City
magazine, the gossip sheet that focused specifically on New York. Everybody read it. Marissa Matthews, the
doyenne
of Manhattan's tittle-tattlers, was editor in chief, and she published weekly scuttlebutt about anybody she could think of. If you were a big star, going outside without make-up was sufficient excuse for half a page. If you were a socialite, you needed a really nasty divorce, with fights over child custody and who got the yacht. And if you were a nobody, you needed to be a corrupt cop or a satanist on the board of education to qualify.
Big City
loved dirt. The grime of the New York skyscrapers was mirrored in the delicious celebrity filth that poured forth from its pages.

Tina read it every week. And now she was going to star in it.

She hugged herself. She had always wanted to be famous. Tina minced up to the receptionist, and flicked her flaxen mane.

Maybe some big producer would see it and cast her in a Hollywood movie. Things like that happened all the time. Didn't they?

“I'm Tina Armis,” she announced proudly to the girl.

“Yeah?” came the bored reply.

“I have an appointment at two to see Marissa Matthews. And to have a photo session,” Tina told her. She examined her reflection in the smoky glass panel behind the reception desk. She had never looked lovelier. And of course
Big City
was paying for her clothes.

If only she could see Diana Verity's face when she picked up the mag! That would be the real cherry on the cake.

*   *   *

Diana paced up and down nervously. She wondered if she should do something. Call Michael, maybe. Call the doorman up, at least. How had Ernie discovered her number? And why was he coming around here?

It was early in the morning, but he still sounded drunk. The telephone call had caught her off guard. Rushing back to her own flat to pick up some faxes for the sales presentation that morning, she had grabbed the phone as she stepped out of the shower, still wrapped in her voluminous white Ralph Lauren bathrobe, the soft toweling sticking to her skin. Refreshed and pampered from the L'Occitane lavender and honey bubble bath she'd taken, her body drenched in fragrance and her blood still pumping from the ghost of Michael's kisses this morning, she was relaxed. And not prepared.

“I need to see you,” he said, as soon as she picked up the phone. His voice was slurred slightly, just enough for Diana to notice it. “Been doing some thinking. You said a lot of true stuff. No hard feelings about today.”

“Yesterday.”

“Yesterday, right. Just business. Anyway, had a fight with Felicity and locked the doors.” Ernie snickered. “And I'm coming round to talk to my wife. Won't take long, be there in twenty minutes.”

“No! Ernie, don't come round. I—I'm busy. Going to work.”

Diana looked around the apartment for her papers. How quickly could she get dressed and get out of here? What on earth could he want? For a second she wondered if yesterday had unbalanced him, if he'd gone mental.

“I'm calling from the car. On my way into the city to see the lawyers. Going home, darlin'. Got a new job.”

“That was fast,” Diana said, despite herself.

Ernie cackled. “You know me. I adapt. Gotta adapt, babe. It's why you hooked up with me at first. So, ten more minutes, for old times' sake, all right?”

He hung up and Diana dived for her clothes. Rejecting the pretty dress and tiny mint-colored cardigan by Gucci she had been planning to wear, she opted for a cream blouse and a severe Dolce and Gabbana navy pantsuit. It fitted her like armor. She wouldn't call Michael, because that would be a display of weakness. Ernie—well—Ernie was an asshole, but yesterday they had cut his world out from under his feet. They were definitely even, and he
had
once been her husband.

She didn't see how she could rightly refuse him.

Very well, ten minutes. She fixed a pot of coffee on the Krups blender and called down to Zachary, the friendly lobby guard who was actually a former Mossad soldier. The building housed a lot of UN diplomats, and everybody who was shown upstairs went through a metal detector and a pat-down. If Ernie passed that test, she supposed it was OK that he come up.

Diana let the coffee percolate and settled down to wait.

*   *   *

“So, my dear, tell me how you were forced into this affair,” Marissa Matthews said sweetly to Tina. She was almost beside herself with joy. The girl was young, barely out of college, a twenty-something with a teenager's coltish body. The bright-red lipstick made her look like a slut and the mockery of a business suit, a skirt that was really a T-shirt with pretensions, and the spiked heels, gave the impression of the kind of businesswoman who stars in
Playboy
photo shoots.

What a money-hungry Barbie doll, Marissa thought. And it reflected
so
badly on poor Diana Verity. That she should be dating a man who once dated … this! It made you wonder about his taste, about Diana. Her image was far too goody-goody, and that made her ripe pickings for
Big City.
They'd had nothing on her since the “mistress in the wife's clothes” story had New York choking over its breakfast croissants. “Extend your leg a little, dear. Slip that jacket off your shoulder. What marvelous skin you have. Do go on.”

The photographer clicked away as Tina gave her story between shots. Marissa had a deadline coming up and was rushing this one onto the cover. They had no time to waste.