Madeline Carter - 01 - Mad Money (16 page)

So Steve’s compliment caught me off guard.
And it was the oddest thing. You can hear compliments like that
stacked on one another and not have them faze you. You know they’re
empty or said for personal gain (to get into your portfolio, your
bed or both) or just because it’s the thing that is said at a
certain point like, “How are you today?” This didn’t feel like
that. It felt real and sincere and unexpected. And, beneath Brian’s
expertly applied foundation, I could feel a blush creep up my
shoulders and over my cheeks. It was an unpleasant sensation and I
wanted it to go away.

I did the only thing I felt capable of doing
under the circumstances: I filled the fluttery void with empty
chatter. A killer instinct for the trade, but I can go all gooshy
at a single compliment.

“Steve Rundle,” I said, “this is Emily
Wright.” They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries and, though I
might have been oversensitive, I thought I heard the pause where I
didn’t explain Emily’s connection with LRG. That was not something
I was going to offer. Though when I found the courage to look more
closely at Steve and saw the way he was looking at me, I could tell
it wasn’t something he was going to press. At the moment, work was
the last thing on his mind. Time to steer him back: on my
terms.

“We got here late,” I heard myself
explaining. “Did we miss anything?” Thankfully, Steve took the
bait.

“You know, you didn’t. Except the expected
round of rubber chicken,” he made a face. “Not a peep about the
Billings guy. And he still hasn’t shown. Is that weird, or
what?”

“With all the maybe-police guys in Culver
City today,” I said, “you’d think something bigger than what
appears to be happening is happening, wouldn’t you? Maybe something
to do with him. Billings.”

Steve just shrugged. It was apparent that it
wasn’t that he didn’t care, he just seemed to think it was
something that maybe didn’t have so much to do with him. Something
that would resolve itself if he left it alone.

I tried again. “Do you think we should ask
someone? Straight out, I mean?” As if. That was like the last thing
I could do at this point. But Steve might be pointed at the
task.

“You’re kidding, right?” He passed a glance
at Emily that was clearly meant to say: Is she insane, or what? Not
one to miss a cue, Emily rolled her eyes as though she’d never seen
anyone so silly.

“It’s just not the Langton way, is it?” he
said.

“I guess not,” I said. “But aren’t you
curious?”

He stood back on his heels, thoughtfully, as
though considering. “Well, I guess on the one hand, I am. But
really in a super broad way. The way I might wonder if the
President will get back in at the next election. I mean, I’ll read
everything about it so I know what’s going on and I’ll go cast my
vote when I’m supposed to, but if the dude I vote for doesn’t get
to work in that office, it doesn’t really have much to do with me,
you know? That’s how I feel about Billings. I’m going to have to go
to work tomorrow whether he shows up or not,” he shrugged, tipped
his glass to me, “so why sweat it?”

Here’s what I was noticing while Steve
spoke: the way his Adam’s apple dipped and rose in his throat as
the words found their way to the air. That his hands were strong
and well made. That his shoulders made themselves apparent through
his evening jacket: I could tell it was him under there and not a
lot of tailor-made buildup. I noticed that his chin was almost
perfectly square — “lantern-jawed” was the phrase that sprang to
mind — and that he was close but inexpertly shaved. And, most of
all, there was an earnestness and an honesty in his face and voice
that drew me. Why, I wondered, had I seen none of this earlier
today?

“Our share prices go up and down,” he was
continuing, “our management phases this way and that, but I work
down in
Orange,
for crying out loud. None of this will
affect me much one way or the other,” he waved a hand in the
direction of the ballroom. “Not as much, even,” he said as he
looked back into my eyes, “as seeing you again.”

Emily cleared her throat, “Well lookee me:
my glass is all dry,” she chirped. “Off I go for a refill.”

Steve stopped her. “No, I’ll go. How about
you, Madison?” It took me a second to focus on the unfamiliar name.
“Would you like another?” I nodded, passing him my glass and
feeling oddly and unexpectedly... whelmed by him. By the depth of
his eyes. And, probably more importantly, the passion I could see
rising there. Emily and I watched him go inside. And I watched his
butt, simply because I suspected a comment would be coming
immediately. She didn’t disappoint me.

“Well,
he
works out.”

“
Emily.
”

“Come on, you didn’t notice? That boy
sincerely has it going on.” And then, as an afterthought, “and he
sincerely has it going on for you.”

“But you said it Em: He’s a boy. Do I strike
you as a cougar?”

“What’s a decade between friends?” she
leered. “And, anyway, your age is the last thing on his mind. I’ll
bet he hasn’t even noticed.”

“
Whatever
Emily. None of this has
anything to do with why we’re here. We should be doing
something.”

“We are doing something. We’re
fraternizing
. It’s cool,” she favored me with a less leering
smile. A warm, Emily smile. I was relieved. “Seriously though,
Madeline, he’s a charming, attractive guy. No matter where we found
him. We’ll see how this all turns out. After this, I think I might
have to revise my manhunting strategies,” she surreptitiously
indicated a testosterone-laden trio on the opposite side of the
terrace who were clearly checking us out. “You can come too,” she
assured me. “This is fairly good huntin’” I must have looked
exasperated, because she went on. “No, from now on we crash
business functions, seriously. Think about it, all of these guys
have jobs and it’s a fairly good bet they can read. That’s a
lot
better starting point than most of guys I’ve met at
clubs.”

Fortunately, I was spared a reply because
Steve returned with our drinks and a little tray of food he’d
rustled up from somewhere. “In case you were hungry, because I know
you missed the dinner.”

Emily took her drink, downed a couple of
canapés, then excused herself. “I should circulate,” she said
apologetically while she looked challengingly into my eyes daring
me to say: But you don’t
know
anyone. Which, of course, I
couldn’t. I could have excused myself to go with her, also
muttering something about circulation, but I suddenly found I
simply didn’t want to. A decade’s difference in age or not, I liked
this guy. And it wasn’t just that he’d brought me food — though the
canapés hadn’t hurt (you gotta like a guy who knows when you need
feeding) — Steve Rundle just exuded this basic niceness and small
town attractiveness that made me not want to put distance between
us and that made me forget, even, why I was here.

Unintentionally, he reminded me.

“Tell me again what you do at Langton,” he
was probably just making conversation, filling the void left by
Emily’s departure, but it was a jolt.

“I don’t think I did tell you.”

“So tell me now,” it wasn’t probing. Just
conversational. I told myself that while I tried to think of how to
reply. But here’s the thing: It’s a lot easier to lie to someone
you don’t like or care about than someone you feel some sort of
connection with. At that moment, when he started asking me stuff I
didn’t want to answer, I knew two things: I didn’t want to lie to
him. And there was just no way I could tell him the truth. I opted
to do neither. I touched him, gently, on his arm. “Do you mind very
much if we don’t talk about work just now?”

He returned my touch with a gentle hand on
my bare shoulder and a smile. “Actually, I don’t mind at all. In
fact, why don’t we leave work behind us for the evening? Do you
want to walk in the marina?”

Did it surprise me that I did? But I found I
wanted to. Very much. I told him so. “Let me just find Emily and
tell her.”

Emily was inside seated at the center of a
group of laughing matrons. Unsurprisingly, they were laughing at
Emily’s jokes. There’s no place she’s uncomfortable; no place she
can’t win over a crowd.

“He’s asked me to go for a walk in the
marina,” I told her when I’d drawn her aside.

She smiled wickedly though, thankfully, she
didn’t crow triumphantly, just said, “He’s a nice guy.”

“Well, I’m going for a walk with him,
anyway.” If I said it slightly defensively, Emily let it pass.
“What about you?”

She pretended to look shocked. “You don’t
want me to come?”

“No, I just meant...”

“I
know
what you meant, Madeline. And
I’ll be fine. I’m actually having a very excellent time.”

“Really? Have any of them asked what you do
for the company?”

“Yeah: I just keeping telling them I’m here
with my friend Madison and when they ask me what
you
do I
just play stupid,” she looked pleased with herself.

“That’s funny.”

“I know. Now off you go, Madeline, and don’t
give me a second thought. I’m a big girl: if you don’t show up by
the time I want to leave, I’ll catch my own cab,” she shushed away
my objections, halfhearted though they may have been. “I’ll keep my
ear to the ground. I have less at stake and less chance of
recognition in this crowd. I might even hear something.” And with
that she gave me a quick hug and returned to her group without a
backwards glance.

Chapter Nine

The feeling that something was wrong —
amiss, out of place — reached through my dreams and poked me awake.
When I opened my eyes, it was confirmed. The clock on the bedside
table said 7:30, which meant the markets had been open for an hour.
But it wasn’t just time’s relationship to the markets. For
starters, the clock I was looking at was unfamiliar. And I wasn’t
in my own little bed over Las Flores. For a second, I wasn’t even
sure exactly
where
I was. Then it came to me: in a hotel
room in Marina Del Rey. The lack of light is what hadn’t wakened me
— that and plain old exhaustion — because the curtains were drawn.
I don’t have curtains in Las Flores. It’s not a view you ever want
to block. But the view wasn’t here.

More: I wasn’t alone. Steve was there,
beautiful in sleep. All hard angles and smooth planes. And I — and
now it all came back to me — I felt wonderful. Energized.
Beautiful. And torn.

Here is what I wanted to do: snuggle back
under the covers against this lovely man and let the incredible, if
somewhat inexplicable, physical chemistry we had discovered we
shared do its work.

Here is what I did: Slipped very quietly out
of bed and skulked around collecting my — or, to be more precise,
Brian’s — scattered clothing from around the room. And how was I
going to wear this clothing now? A slinky beaded evening dress on
the streets of West L.A. on a weekday morning? It seemed the very
epitome of the walk of shame. And the wig? Forget it. In the
bathroom I washed the sleep from my face and smoothed my hair as
best as I could with my fingers. Then I found a bag intended for
laundry or shoe cleaning and stuffed the wig in there. It obviously
wasn’t going to fit in my evening bag.

I headed for the door, then thought better
of it. How could I leave without some sort of acknowledgment? I
found the obligatory hotel stationary in a bureau drawer and
scrawled a fast — and quiet — note:

Steve...

And then I hesitated. Now what?

Thank you for everything.

“Thank you?” How lame was that?

It was a very special evening. I’ll remember
it always.

Blech! Yet it felt true.

And I signed it with a simple “M” for
“Madison” because I couldn’t bring myself to write the whole
fabricated name.

And it
had
been. A special evening.
And, for obvious reasons, I couldn’t let it get any further. I
wasn’t who he thought I was. So, when I left the room, I let the
door close very quietly behind me. And then I walked softly down
the hall, feeling like a thief. Feeling like I’d stolen
something.

A cab took me back to where I’d left my car
at the restaurant on La Cienega the previous night and then I drove
myself home, feeling spacey and unreal the whole way: forty-five
minutes on the Santa Monica Freeway and then PCH, going against
nasty morning traffic all heading into the city. Away from me.

At home, Tycho was excited and reproachful
at once. It’s a dual move that only dogs can do very well. I
ignored the three dead lizards he’d lined up next to his bowl — I’d
deal with them later. But I did replenish his water, which brought
some slightly less reproachful tail wagging.

I noticed the message light flashing madly
on my phone but ignored it as I’d ignored the lizards. I knew who
it was. Emily would be looking for a full report and I’d give it to
her, of course. Some version of it anyway. But not just yet. Right
now I needed to change out of last night’s slinky clothes, have a
long shower and pull on my usual work clothes: track pants and a
T-shirt. “And no, Tycho: no run today,” I said to his delightedly
reproachful face as I scratched under his chin. “Well, maybe
later.”

So, twenty-four hours later and here I was:
back in the shower. Would I never learn? Bath people don’t have to
have those big, wet voids in their lives. If they want, they can
take a cordless phone into the tub with them. It’s possible to stay
connected in a bath. Not so with water that tumbles from above.

But it’s blissful. After fifteen minutes of
hot, spiky needles of pressurized water slamming into your skin, it
isn’t possible to only feel half alive. It wakes up even the
sleepiest, out of sorts parts of you, forces focus where a quarter
hour before there was confusion. And it’s nice to be that
clean.