Inferno Anthology (129 page)

“Okay, I guess this is my stop.” Her tone reflects the disappointment I see in her eyes.

“Thanks for the thank you, Lively.” I raise her hand to my lips and let my kiss linger as I gaze into her eyes. I feel that I need to do something to show some appreciation; after all, she did provide an intimate gift to me. Somewhere I hear the words Kathryn spoke from earlier about finding a pretty young thing to service me. I wipe the thought from my mind.

Gathering her coat and clutch, she scoots to the door Eddie has now opened, his timing precise as usual.

“Lizzie, a quick question before you leave.” She stops her progression to the open door and turns to me as I stay reclined on the seat. “Any complaints about our time tonight?”

“Well.” She hesitates, looking me over and taking in the excess she sees in my surroundings. “No, no complaints.”

Smiling, I respond, “That's what I thought.”

The door closes and I gloat after hearing Lively's comments. Kathryn was incorrect in her assessment of me. No complaints. But I picture her laughing in mocked amusement at me. Something tells me by posing this question to Lively, I’ve let Kathryn succeed in slinking under my tough exterior. Or maybe it’s just the result of Simon’s shocking betrayal. Making me sense an unusual apprehension in my mind.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Peters is calling with an update on the mysterious Kathryn Delcour, I hope. My knowledge of her is limited. And what I do know about her leaves me with more questions than answers.

She is Mrs. Swanson's daughter and probably the daughter of her late husband Richard.

Answering the phone, I hope to learn more. “Peters. What do you have so far?”

“She recently turned thirty-four.” Two-year difference. Not an obstacle in my opinion.

“Daughter of the late Richard Swanson and Mrs. Ava Swanson.” Nothing I didn’t already assume.

“Kathryn has a brother, John. Age twenty-seven.” So he's younger than I am, barely.

“Still more digging to do, but I did find something very interesting. Kathryn Delcour’s family is directly connected to the Vanderbilts.”

Wait, I remember her saying money can't buy you everything and then following it with, 
”Believe me, I know.”

“So Peters, are you talking the New York City Vanderbilts?”

He answers my question quickly. “Yep. The old money ones.”

“So she's a Vanderbilt.” I echo back to Peters as I digest that Kathryn’s an American aristocrat and part of a financial dynasty.

Truthfully this fact doesn’t surprise me in the least. Instead it explains a great deal about this mystery woman. Her countenance has the polish of fine breeding, education, and a certain air of superiority, as if she knows a few of life's hidden secrets. Or perhaps just mine. An unnerving quality.

“I wonder if she celebrates Thanksgiving with Anderson Cooper,” I say in jest. My laugh likely stuns Peters. We are all business and I never show any emotions other than anger or frustration when his results aren’t sufficient to meet my need for information.

“Well, sir, I'll find out more details about her. Education, employment, and social contacts, if you'd like?”

“Everything. I want everything down to the last possible detail.” I end the call. He knows what I want and will deliver. We've been down this road many times before. However, it's usually a business contact or financial enemy who he mines information on. I'm not sure where Kathryn stands yet. However, the one thing I know for sure… she is beautiful and alluring. She seems keen, unflappable, but I have no doubt she'll succumb to my charms given time.

The typical Manhattan woman and Kathryn have little in common. So I need to approach her differently than I do others. The women I usually dabble with are masochists at heart, wanting love, but willing to be with me at whatever cost because they believe I'm a man they can ensnare and possibly tame.

So far the beast inside me remains wild and undomesticated. However, I don’t remember a woman inducing such a raw desire in me like Kathryn Delcour. And in just one meeting. Quite the accomplishment.

What happened with Lizzie tonight—quick unmemorable head—isn't how a woman like Kathryn operates. There is no need for desperate ploys. Her performance tonight made that abundantly clear.

The men I saw surrounding her were anxiously fawning to capture her attention, but she left them gawking without a hope for more. She is an enigma. All the more reason for Peters to produce a thorough and in-depth report on her. It’s unlikely that I'll see behind her clever façade without some help. She’s guarded and has been warned of my ways.

I stare out my car’s window and watch the sidewalks pass by, trying to numb my mind and put thoughts of the day behind me. Eddie maneuvers the familiar streets lined with shops that cater to the wealthy. High-rise, coffee shop, restaurant, boutique. The pattern is repeated block after block.

We approach my building on Fifth Avenue. My penthouse occupies one of the top floors at The Pierre Hotel, a cavernous perfection with unmatched views of Manhattan’s skyline and Central Park. The door to the SUV opens after we come to a stop in front of my building. I exit and say tomorrow's early morning instructions to Eddie, wishing him a pleasant evening. I thank him for his discretion. Something I’ve never done before. I don’t stop to wonder why.

Another door opens as I approach my building's entrance. I’ve learned the wealthy here in New York City rarely open their own doors. We pay for others to provide that service. A rather odd thing I have become accustomed to.

The doorman stands regally as he greets me with a tip of his tall hat. I raise my chin, nod in his direction, and turn away. Once inside the lobby, I breeze past the concierge, whose head is bowed before a book, and make my way to the penthouse elevator hidden from the public's view. I enter the special access code, 1958: the year of my mother's birth.

I was born twenty-three years later in a sleepy little town outside of Philly. A pastoral community where my mother, Flora, gave me life but never fully lived her own. Damn, how I miss her.

For some reason, I think back to the Kathryn’s scent tonight. If I close my eyes and inhale I can almost replay the moment I caught the sweet smell of her perfume. I’m certain it was Shalimar, what my mother wore. A therapist would have a field day with that one. The woman I want desperately to fuck has a scent that reminds me of my mother. The fact that it doesn’t turn me off is what should be alarming, but I can’t seem to control what has been set in motion. It’s such a strange position to find myself in.

I stare at my odd smile reflected on the elevator's silver doors. Listening to the floors tick away, I ponder how I can have a second encounter with Kathryn. I don’t want to wait until another drab event to see her. My fingers itch to touch her skin. My body awakens at the thought of her fingers’ gentle touch as it whispered up my arm. I close my eyes at the memory.

Finally, the elevator arrives at the top floor. Few people have had the privilege of seeing what lies behind the mahogany doors standing in front of me. It's my sanctuary and escape from the world. Women are not allowed beyond the doors. The only exception is Rosa, my housekeeper.

Once I'm behind the doors, I proceed to my bedroom. I pass through the hall, a gallery of sorts. On the walls, I've hung masterful works of modern art, mostly in abstract form with bright colors that jump off the canvases. They are very good investments.  In my bedroom, I walk into my closet, leaving the colors behind. My room’s décor is calming and subdued, much like the clothes I wear. My wardrobe consists of typical Manhattan garb—black, dark gray, and a touch of light gray for variety. A bright tie for a splash of color. I remove my tux and place it in an empty hamper. Rosa will coordinate its cleaning tomorrow and return it to the limo, where it will wait to be donned again.

Skipping my normal nighttime routine of watching the opening of foreign markets, I approach my bed and examine the linen covers. The bed appears welcoming, but I move past it and walk toward the bedroom's wall of glass windows knowing that sleep will likely evade me tonight. My mind is too preoccupied to rest.

What a day. It started with lowest of lows with the news of Simon’s deceit. His betrayal has gutted me. I still can’t process what led him to try and ruin my company, the one he helped me build. His recent break-up with his fiancée left him devastated. I never met her, although Simon tried to get me to join them for dinner on several occasions. I didn’t socialize with Simon outside of work.

He was smitten by her from all accounts. I was thrilled for him, thinking at last he had found someone to love him. A woman who understood him, who would make a place in her life for him. He took a few days off work after the break-up. Personal days, Simon called them. Since he had never done this before, I should’ve known that trouble was lurking. But I thought time would help, and he isn’t the kind of man who reaches out to others in any way at all. So I gave him space. All of the partners did. A horrible mistake, it would appear on our part.

When I saw him earlier today standing in the rain outside my SUV swiping his finger across his neck, there was pure hatred in his eyes. A murderous glare. Picturing it in my mind makes me recoil. Tomorrow, a meeting is scheduled with Tom and Patrick, my other partners at Kings Capital. We’ll try to weed through all of this. Maybe they can help me connect the dots, figure out why Simon was led to sell me or us out. Simon’s out-of-character behavior toward me makes me wonder if I was his target in all of this. The look in his eyes: revenge was there. A payback of some kind was aimed at me.

The evening drove the day away for a few hours at least. But my brain spins the night's events around in my head. The whirling stops when I envision Kathryn walking toward me at the bar. I relive the instant our eyes met and the smile that formed on her lips. My thoughts evoke something rare. Thankfulness. For once I feel grateful to have attended a boring fundraiser.

Standing before the wall of windows, I scan the neon skyline of New York City. Somewhere hidden and tucked away for the night are two forces my mind tangles with—Kathryn Delcour and Simon Edwards.

One is an intense, beautiful woman, full of mystery and intrigue. The other is a traitorous friend, reeking of deceit.

I give up thinking for now and retreat from viewing the night’s black landscape and slip between the cold sheets of my bed, alone as usual. A detail I’ve never had a problem with before today, before Kathryn.

*****

I arise early, before the sun’s direct rays light the sky, having had a surprisingly sweet night of sleep. A refreshing rarity for me, and my body feels rested, a nice reward and way to start the day.

Usually my dreams turn nightmarish, keeping me from sleeping more than a few hours at night. My physician advised me to try sleeping pills. But I hated their effect on me. My whole day would feel off, like my mind was disengaged. So needless to say, after several attempts I threw the pills away. I’d rather fight sleep then feel doped up.

But last night the usual terrors didn’t invade my sleep, and I awoke without my heart pounding. Instead, I found myself fully erect as I remembered what I had dreamt about. Kathryn’s full, red lips and long stocking-covered legs wrapped tightly around my waist as I held her sweet ass in my hands. My body pressed her against my bedroom’s window while I fucked her hard. A thorough, rapturous pounding. An infinite view of the skyline was our backdrop. Her lust-filled eyes were my focus.

The erotic remembrance has me awakening with a smile on my face for the first time in years. I consider falling back to sleep, tempted to see if my mind will dream of her again. But instead, I tend to my erection in the shower and start my day.

A breakfast meeting downtown for an upcoming software venture brings me into the office later than I had expected. Mrs. Carter hunches over her desk shuffling through some papers as I make my way toward her. She's likely gathering the latest reports of my personal holdings. Her brows tighten together in worry. She's probably wondering if this morning's numbers are correct, and she's doing some fact checking before presenting me with the totals.

What she's yet to realize is that my trades were off, shot to hell, actually. The loss is novel, slightly frustrating, but oddly amusing. I should call in my chief investment officer to go over the numbers, but I don't really care. The loss of a few million is insignificant compared to meeting Kathryn Delcour.

“Good morning, Mrs. Carter.” I hurry past her desk but stop when she stands. Probably on her way to get my coffee.

“Good morning, sir.” She lays the papers down and greets me with a weak smile. Likely wondering if she should mention the numbers in front of her. There is no sense in engaging with her on this topic.

“No more coffee for me this morning. Had my fill at breakfast.” I say to her, speaking over my shoulder after I’ve passed by. “I’ll buzz you in a few minutes to go over my day. I’m making some changes to it.” I close my door before she responds.

There is a scheduled meeting with Tom and Patrick at ten o’clock. During Sir Scott’s speech last night, I called the meeting together. We need to discuss Simon and all the ramifications of his leaving Kings Capital. His loss will be felt deep and wide.

After settling at my desk, answering a few emails and reading through some reports, I push the intercom and buzz Mrs. Carter.

“In my office. Please.”

She walks in casually and takes the seat in front of my desk, hoping to look at ease, but I see the concern in her eyes. “Ready, Mr. Kingsley.”

“I suppose you've seen the numbers this morning.” My words are more statement than question.

“I was just reviewing the results of the trades. You're aware of their outcomes?” She’s wringing her hands and fishing for knowledge, not wanting to reveal the loss to me.

“Of course. I made those pathetic trades. A rare loss for Kings Capital, and me, but we’ll recover. After my meeting today at ten with Tom and Patrick, I’m booked with conference calls. Please have a lunch brought up around twelve thirty. Pick something from my usual list of lunch choices. Most of the afternoon will be spent on a call with investors. We’re researching a possible new acquisition. Another social media start-up.”