The Naughty Corner (21 page)

“The files are fine. The software just wouldn’t recognize them. But it’s fixed now, so you don’t have to bring the disk down.”

George. Was this about the date she’d turned down? Had he done it on purpose to make her look bad? It couldn’t be. Because it made him look even worse than it did her.

She didn’t want to think about George. Or the twins. She didn’t want to think about the Fletcher project or Paul Robinson. She wanted to think about Gray and that glorious hour in his office. She wanted back the bliss she’d lost. She
needed
it back. So she called him. When he didn’t answer, she left a message in the softest, sexiest of voices, so soft he might not even be able to hear.

“God. You cannot possibly know how good that was.”

She was hooked. Completely. Now all she could do was hope the smackdown, when it came, wouldn’t cripple her forever.

18

OH YES, HE KNEW EXACTLY HOW GOOD IT WAS. GRAY FIGURED THAT
his experience both before and after his marriage qualified as far more vast than Lola’s. So he knew their sexual connection was unique, their chemistry rare.

Which was why, in the middle of a product-review meeting when he should have been paying attention to his VP of development, Gray sent Lola a text reply to the voicemail she’d left earlier.

Very good, my naughty little slut. U performed well.

Seated at the head of the table, he kept the phone down on his lap, the sound on vibrate so there were no tones as he typed.

Jones, on the high side of fifty, his hair thinning, his paunch growing, was repetitive. Another time, Gray might have told him to skip the corporate history lesson and move on to the meat of the discussion, but for now he was content with the analysis.

The blinds were closed against the blast of August sun, and consequently the room was stuffy with male sweat and conflicting aftershaves. The coffee had started to stew on its warmer. He didn’t usually allow himself to become distracted, but the scent of her clung to his clothes, her taste lingered on his tongue, and the sound of her cries superseded Jones’s sonorous tones.

The phone vibrated in Gray’s hand. His heart actually began to beat faster in anticipation. There was definitely an added thrill with illicit sex. He could understand why employees succumbed to office affairs. Without dropping his gaze, he pushed the Menu button on the phone to open her reply.

Three seconds later, he glanced down to read.

I’m not the slut. U demanded I come there. U made me pull up my skirt. It was all U U U.

Returning to his view of Jones’s weathered visage, he smiled inwardly. Yes, it was all him. He’d commanded, she had obeyed. She’d allowed him every liberty. When she’d climaxed, she’d contracted so tightly around him, she’d dragged him down with her. What a way to go.

And she was right. It was so far from punishment for her nephews’ crimes. He no longer needed an excuse, not for her, not for himself.

Jones moved into the new-product release schedule, which was actually the point of the review. It was not simply an engineering or development matter. It was also about the reserves that were needed to adequately cover potential returns and allowances, which were higher in a product’s infancy. The question was how much and when to increase accruals. Overestimating requirements affected the bottom line in the current period. Underestimation, however, could mean a big lump-sum hit at quarter-end or year-end. Bannerman, his CFO, was conservative—as an accountant should be—compared with Gray’s more aggressive tendencies. Generally, they tempered each other.

He listened to the discussion as he typed on the phone’s small sliding keyboard.

Dirty bitch, don’t deny U loved it. U need more. U R obsessed with sex.

The brief sexual byplay via text made him feel alive. His skin seemed to hum like an electrical current buzzing just beneath the surface. He was semi-hard, ready. If she walked in the door, he’d take her on the conference table in front of his staff.

He decided to type exactly that.

She was back in a flash.

Naughty Coach. Look who’s obsessed.

Oh, yeah. He was. And to use her words, she couldn’t possibly know how good that felt.

U R my filthy little whore.

He loved the dirty talk, especially because of the place in which he sat, at the head of the table, chief executive officer in the middle of a meeting.

Jones and Bannerman were looking at him, waiting for his input. Gray slid his phone into his pocket.

“Ten percent is far too high,” he told them. “What’s the failure rate in QC, Reynolds?”

Reynolds was his head of manufacturing. Quality control was his bailiwick. Tall, dark-skinned, with classical features like a black Apollo, he was the youngest of Gray’s staff. But he knew his stuff. Gray had been impressed during the interview and had never had an occasion to revise that first opinion downward.

“We’re seeing two percent.” Which was pretty damn good. “There’s always a slight bump in the field, but ten percent failure rate isn’t supported by any of my data.”

They settled on three percent for August and the fourth quarter and moved on to other issues. When Gray had an occasion to check his texts later, he found another from Lola.

If I’m your whore, then where’s my payment?

Oh, she would have payment, most definitely. He started planning her remuneration right then.

And he was still considering his plans far into the evening. As he ate dinner. While he reviewed a couple of spreadsheets on his laptop. Exactly how much did she deserve? And would she like his payment, since it wouldn’t exactly fit under the heading of traditional?

He was returning from the master bathroom at the far end of the house. A noise in the kitchen pricked his ears, and while he wasn’t an alarmist, he padded lightly down the hall to investigate.

Rafe leaned both elbows on the breakfast bar, his hands supporting his chin. Gray’s keys, wallet, and cell phone lay on the tile counter in front of him.

“What are you doing?” he asked sharply.

Rafe jumped, slamming his hand down on the counter. It landed on the phone. Gray discerned a slight movement of a pinkie finger as if he might be hitting a button or two.

Then his son stammered, “I—I—well . . . ” He slapped his lips shut, opened them again. “I was just waiting for you. I heard you back in the bathroom.”

The only way Rafe could have heard the water running as Gray washed his hands was if he’d walked all the way back to the open master bedroom door. Just as Gray hadn’t heard him enter, Rafe wouldn’t have been able to hear him if all he’d done was come in and enter the kitchen. Why hadn’t he called out to say he was here?

“Were you looking at my phone?” He hadn’t erased the string of texts to Lola. He hadn’t mentioned her name, and it should show only her cell number.

“Of course I wasn’t,” Rafe said too quickly. “I was just thinking.”

He was lying. He’d probably been trying to figure out who had been here that night last week when he’d dropped by unexpectedly. Rafe was checking up on him.

Gray entered the room, stepped to the opposite side of the counter. The screen was once again blank. He didn’t have an extended time on the lighted screen.

He could call Rafe a liar, but it was counterproductive at this point. It would only create another argument between them, which he was loath to do after the good weekend they’d had. Saturday evening they’d enjoyed pizza and a movie. Sunday they’d gone for a hike in Edgewood Park. Rafe had shown no signs of his usual sullenness.

He was probably waiting until the new car was insured and the registration sticker on the license plates, then he’d revert to his usual attitude.

“Did your mom mention anything about the insurance?”

Rafe ran his thumbnail along a line of tile grout. “Yes. That’s all done.”

“Good.”

Finally Rafe looked up. “The guys really like the car. You were right, Dad. It’s pretty cool.”

Something warm and tender wrapped itself around Gray’s insides. He’d been stupid to fight getting the car. The aftereffect of the purchase was this truce between them. Maybe it wouldn’t last, but he wasn’t going to question it now.

“You want to stay for a movie? I got the new Jason Statham.” Rafe liked the high-action actor.

He was still fingering the grout. “I kinda told Mom I wouldn’t be that long.”

“All right, I can save it. Thanks for stopping by and letting me know about the guys.” It didn’t matter which guys. It only mattered that Rafe had actually admitted his father was right about something.

These days, that was a huge step between them.

* * *

THE EMAIL WAS TIME-STAMPED WITH 9:45 AM PST. TUESDAY. THE
subject line read
YOU
, and the address was a generic gmail account. She would normally have discounted it as spam. Except that the letter had arrived in this morning’s mail. Lola’s sixth sense was telling her the letter and the email were connected.

“Okay,” she said softly, “bite the bullet.”

She double-clicked the mouse, and the email filled one of her twenty-three-inch screens.

BITCH WHORE SLUT
. Over and over on the page. All caps, in different sizes and different colors. It was actually quite creative.

But it wasn’t funny. And she couldn’t dismiss it. Not after the letter had come in this morning’s ten o’clock mail.

That was still lying on the desk beside her. Mailed in Menlo Park on Monday, it had taken one day to arrive. The address had been typed rather than handwritten. The return label was phony, no name, just a street address. And she was pretty damn sure there was no road named Ho Lane in Menlo Park.
Ho
as in
whore
. At least that was her interpretation based on the contents of the letter. It was also typed, no signature. Short and to the point, she’d read the missive enough times to memorize it.

I know who you are, Bitch, and I know what you’re doing.

That sounded like a melodramatic old movie.

You can’t treat people like this. You’ll be sorry for what you’ve done. You will pay. And you’ll never hurt anyone like this again. I promise you.

And on the monitor, each epithet in the email seemed to pulsate, especially those in red.

Who takes that kind of time to color and size each word separately?

It wasn’t at all like George. He’d never said a bad word in front of her, never acted like a drama queen, certainly never to the extent of the letter.
That
was total drama queen. She’d always thought of George as . . . a nerd. How mean was that? Maybe he’d sensed the thoughts she’d had about him, and when she’d rebuffed him, he’d gone off the deep end. Maybe he’d even sabotaged the files she’d sent and only confessed when Frank, or even Paul, figured out George was responsible.

She could sit here ruminating in front of the computer all she wanted, but it didn’t solve anything.

Get off your butt and go see him.

She wasn’t the type to complain to his boss before she’d given him a chance to defend himself. And she certainly wasn’t going to mention it to Frank in the off chance he had a clue. No, it was big-girl time. She might dislike confrontation, but she had to ask George.

Forty-five minutes later she turned into Fletcher’s parking lot. She’d chosen jeans and a loose T-shirt sporting the figure of a tabby cat doing aerobics. On the back, it was paws up. She wasn’t quite sure whether it was supposed to be exhausted or dead.

Her card key allowed her access through any door, so she chose one in the back, closest to engineering and the factory. Hopefully, she could avoid Paul that way.

She wended her way through the racks of equipment being assembled, smiling at a technician, a stock guy delivering parts to the floor. The ceilings were high, sound echoing above her in a dull roar.

She checked the lab. It was empty. Engineering consisted of rows of cubicles made of blue cloth partitions. She came at George’s cube the long way around, avoiding Frank.

George was seated at his computer monitor, his back to the cubicle opening. His hair was cut so short, she could see white skin through the black strands. Music played softly. Elevator music. He was actually listening to elevator music. Only old people of the Lawrence Welk contingent enjoyed that kind of music.

Although she had to admit the song was kind of pretty.

She was stalling. If she didn’t get on with it, someone else would see her standing here and she wouldn’t get the chance to speak privately. But God, she did
not
want to do this. She clenched her fists and stepped inside the blue fabric walls, which were adorned with the periodic table and posters of the planets and constellations.

“Hey, George.”

He whirled in his chair and looked up at her, taking a moment to focus behind his horn-rimmed glasses. “Lola.”

“Yeah. Hey. Can we talk for a minute?”

He blinked. There was only a light spot of ink on his shirt pocket today, red that had faded to pink. “Ah, okay, sure.”

She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “How about coffee in the break room? I haven’t had my morning cup yet.” She sounded so lame she could have rolled her eyes at herself.

“Yeah, okay.” He used both hands to shove himself out of the chair and followed her.

Past midmorning but not quite lunch yet, the break room was empty. The coffeemaker sat on a counter along one wall, with three carafes next to it, then a bin holding little pots of creamers, sugar packets, stir sticks, cups, and beside that, a microwave. The refrigerator hummed, and the scent of coffee still hung in the air.

“I thought you wanted a cup,” George said when she sat down at one of the four tables without pouring.

“Changed my mind.” She held out a hand, indicating the chair next to hers. She was afraid if he sat across, she’d have to speak too loudly.