Just One Night, Part 3: Binding Agreement (7 page)

CHAPTER 9

I
DON’T GO HOME.
There’s no point, not when I can stay with him, in his home that is bigger than mine, in his bed that offers me pleasures and satisfaction. When I arrive, he’s wearing a dark suit and a thick white dress shirt with no tie. Formality and accessibility in one look. A beguiling contrast.

But the rest of his preparations give me pause. His dining room table is covered in white linen. There’s a place setting for two and candles in the center of the table. It’s clichéd romance more appropriate for love marked with rose petals and midnight walks than one defined by power plays and sexual deviance.

He reads the skepticism in my eyes and laughs it away. “We can have quiet moments of traditionalism on occasion. We can have anything we want.”

This makes me laugh, too, as I pull nervously at the sleeve of my blazer. My confidence falters when it’s just the two of us.

“Not that it’s necessary,” he says, “but would you like to change for dinner?”

I look down at my white suit. Images of red wine and olive oil dance through my head. “Yes,” I say definitively, “I believe I would.”

“I assumed as much,” he says, his laughter subsiding to a teasing smile. “I bought you something else today. A dress. It’s on my bed waiting for you.”

I’m about to say something when I hear someone in the kitchen.

“We’re not alone?” Even my question makes me tremble a bit. Memories of being ravished in that bar . . . it had been so intense, frightening, exhilarating. . . . I don’t know if I can do that two nights in a row. I don’t think I want to.

But if he asked me to, would I? Is that what’s needed to maintain the balance? Must I submit every night?

Yet when Robert reaches for my hand his touch is reassuring, not demanding. “It’s the chef and his assistant. I hired them for the night. They’ll cook for us; that’s all.”

The relief is stronger than I thought it could be. I grab his shoulders and kiss his lips gently with only a touch of passion. “Thank you.”

“Thank me for the dress,” he says quietly. “The night’s events are set by your moods as much as my ambitions. I’m just better at recognizing them than you are.”

I’m not sure I understand his meaning but that’s okay. At the moment everything is okay.

Downstairs the dress is red. Red like the words painted on the door of the speakeasy, red as Genevieve’s hair, red as a ruby.

The last thought disturbs me. I haven’t thought of Dave for a while now. He’s fading further and further into my past. How much of what I remember of my relationship with him is real and how much only reflects the reality that works best for me? Memories evolve quickly, more like a virus than an animal. This year’s flu bears little resemblance to the flu that killed so many only a few years back. The virus evolves, we’ve taken our shots, and now it can’t hurt us the way it once could . . . back when it looked different, back before we were prepared.

I slide into the dress. It’s made of velvet, a fabric I usually think of as tacky and outdated, like something you would see in a 1970s rendition of the
Nutcracker
, although even that wouldn’t work since the dancers would sweat too much.

But this dress is different. It’s higher quality, the fabric mixed with layers of silk that hang in a cowl neckline and adorn the very low back. The designer is Antonio Berardi. He’s redefined the fabric, given it a fierce modern edge, made it sensual and daring.

For a brief moment I wonder if Robert Dade has redesigned me.

I quickly discard the idea and go upstairs.

Robert is already sitting at the table, waiting for me. A bottle of champagne has been opened yet again but this time it’s poured by a man in a white chef’s jacket. He gives me a deferential nod as Robert rises to pull out my chair.

“You look magnificent.”

“There’s that word again,” I say lightly.

“It suits you.” He kisses me on top of my head like a father. It makes me feel safe.

He sits down, raises his glass in toast. “To us.”

It’s the most common toast in the world. Right up there with “Cheers,” and “
À ta santé!
” But the words seem more loaded coming from Robert’s lips. For what does it mean, “Us?” We are not Romeo and Juliet. We are Caesar and Cleopatra. We’re Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, Pierre and Marie Curie. Our coupling has consequences, people’s lives will be changed. . . .

Like Tom and Dave and Asha and Mr. Costin, for them our romance is as radioactive as anything the Curies cooked up in their lab.

And Cleopatra, Anne, Marie—each one of them was destroyed by the fate they pursued. Each undone by their passions and power. Pierre and Caesar didn’t fare much better . . . and then there was Henry.

I study Robert over my champagne glass. Could Robert ever turn on me? I’ve watched him casually destroy Tom; he’s offered to destroy others. What would it take for him to decide to destroy me?

The man in the chef’s coat is back. He places a small serving of venison carpaccio in front of each of us. The venison has been seared with a light vinaigrette that smells of rosemary and it’s topped with porcini panna cotta, a dark red coulis, beetroot, and a sprinkling of shaved parmesan, culinary adornments that do nothing to detract from the fact that what we’re about to eat is raw. A living thing that we kill and consume simply because it suits our tastes. My fork hesitates before piercing the meat. I meet Robert’s eyes as he takes his first mouthful.

“Not hungry?” he asks.

I pause for only a moment before admitting the truth. “I’m famished.” And I eat what’s been served. And I savor it, enjoy it; with each bite I find myself less and less concerned about the symbolism, the moral implications. I like it. That’s enough.

“How is the transition going?”

“Mr. Costin was uncomfortable with my promotion at first,” I say, my mouth partially full, “but he understands the score now. I’m getting a better sense of all the departments and those who once saw me as a coworker have already come to see me as a boss.” I take a sip of the champagne. “I have them all in line.”

The last line was delivered as a joke . . . sort of.

“Good. Tell me if Costin gives you any problems. Or Freeland for that matter.”

Our plates are cleared; a second small course is served. “It’s funny,” I say as I pierce the fricassee mushrooms, “I haven’t seen Freeland for some time. I mean he hasn’t really been a hands-on partner for a while but still, he used to do the occasional walk-through. Stop in to say hello to all the managers, make sure they’re still appreciative of his position. But I haven’t seen him in weeks.”

“Yes,” Robert says, “that’s strange.”

But the way he says it tells me that he doesn’t think it’s strange at all.

I sit back in my chair. “Do you know something?”

Robert raises his eyebrows. “Yes,” he says softly, “I know something.”

I imitate his expression, raising my eyebrows and cocking my head mockingly. “Do tell, Mr. Dade.”

“I know that your company was in trouble. Tom wasn’t a bad businessman from what I’ve heard but he wasn’t innovative or hands on. None of the managers there are . . . or at least they weren’t. You’ll do a better job. Tell me, did you call meetings with each of your departments yet?”

“How did you know about that?”

“I know your style,” he says simply. “I know that you won’t take anything for granted. You’ll learn the ins and outs of each department, you’ll find ways for your people to differentiate themselves from the other consultants in the industry.”

“You’re quite confident in me,” I say, wondering if it’s entirely merited.

“Your recommendations for Maned Wolf were brilliant,” he continues. “You said things that others wouldn’t dare suggest. People often worry about recommending layoffs or the dismantling or reorganization of entire departments. The corporate world isn’t nearly as ruthless as some assume. We carry around dead weight out of sentimentality and attachment to old ideas. We take pride in innovations that were introduced so long ago, they’re no longer innovative at all. Polaroid, MySpace, Hostess, BlackBerry, all the same story. But you”—he smiles, takes another bite—“you’re like me. You’re not sentimental.”

I shift slightly in my seat. I’ve been told that before, never as a compliment. “I can be a little—”

“No. If you were sentimental, you would have asked Dave for a diamond. You would have pictures on your desk. You’d be a different person with different potential and I’d want little to do with you.”

The touch of velvet against my skin does little to soften the impact of his words. The things this man likes about me . . . they’re not the right things . . . are they?

“You walked into the Maned Wolf boardroom and told us what you believed we should do,” he says as the chef clears away his plate once again. “You didn’t hold back because you’re
not
sentimental and because you knew that your job wasn’t in jeopardy. Like a president in his final term, you forged ahead without feeling the need to weigh the political consequences. Now you’ll have that same freedom in every aspect of your job. You’ll move up quickly there, do what needs to be done. There will be casualties. Jobs will be lost, but in the end that firm will owe us both a debt of thanks.”

I push away my champagne. “You make me sound cold,” I whisper.

“No,” he corrects, “I make you sound strong.”

I think back on my day as yet another dish arrives, lamb rib eye, rich decadence delicately served. Mr. Costin had been sentimental about Tom. I’m sure of it. But maybe Robert’s right. Maybe that sentimentality provided cover for a weakness. A lack of creativity, an inability to see the full picture. I had always admired Tom’s business sense, but did I ever imagine him taking the business world by storm as I dream of doing? No.

We finish our meal slowly, ending it with tastes of bitter chocolate and fruity sorbet.

Each course had been small but so perfect. The chefs clean up as we finish off the bottle of champagne. In the end Robert thanks them, pays them, and sends them on their way. I feel lightheaded. I take his hand, bring his palm to my mouth, and place a kiss there.

“It’s just the two of us now.”

“It always is,” he says. “Even when there are others, it’s just the two of us.”

That’s an easy way to look at it, lazy in its inaccuracy but I like the way it sounds. I hold on to his hand, lead him down the stairs to the bedroom. He watches me as I release him, as I walk around to the other side of the bed. I let my own eyes travel the length of him. Even his jacket can’t hide his muscular build. His broad shoulders, his powerful arms, the perfect predator. The maned wolf.

“I want you,” I say quietly. “Every part of you. Your generosity, your savagery, your romance and your pragmatism, even your ruthless ambition.”

“
Even
my ruthless ambition?”

“Especially your ruthless ambition.” I laugh. But then my tone grows serious. “I want it all. You say you want to be inside my power?” I reach out to him. “Let me put my arms around yours.”

The smile on his lips is almost sad, almost wistful. “Very well,” he says. He takes off his jacket, walks to me, but he stops when he’s two feet away. “You want it all? Take it.”

I step forward, unbutton his shirt, and pull it off of him. Then comes his belt. He lets me strip it all away as he stands there, compliant and willing until he’s completely naked and open. I press the velvet of my dress against his bare skin. I run my fingers through his short hair, pull him into a kiss as his hands move to the small of my back. I feel him grow hard against me. He’s letting me take the lead tonight, letting me flex my newfound strength.

I pull away, cup his cheek in my palm before taking another small step back so I can look at him again, at my leisure. I take his cock in my palm, move my hand up and down until it colors with excitement. “Is that for me?” I whisper.

He smiles again but this time the melancholy is gone. “Always,” he answers.

I let go, raise my hands to his shoulders, and then give him a gentle push, which he gives in to, falling back on the bed. “If it’s mine, then it’s mine to taste.”

I get down on the floor, kneel between his legs as I take him in my mouth. I let my tongue outline the head of his penis, teasing the nerve endings until he moans. My tongue then travels down the length of him slowly, one centimeter at a time as his agitation mounts. My fingers gently stroke the delicate flesh at the base as my mouth continues its journey down and then finally back up again at the same torturous pace before steadily increasing my speed. He moans again, though this time the sound is more guttural, animalistic. When he starts to shake I stop and rise to my feet. He immediately sits up and reaches for me, but I stay just out of his grasp.

“This is velvet,” I explain. “Such a delicate fabric. You’re not allowed to touch it.”

“I did pay for that dress,” he manages, his breathing uneven, his voice hoarse.

“And you gave it to me,” I reply smoothly. “You will never be able to take back what you give, not from me. I won’t let you.”

Slowly, with a quiet pageantry, I remove the dress, my bra, my panties. I straddle him, my knees pressing against his hips, but I don’t lower myself onto his lap. Not yet.