The Replacement Wife (37 page)

“I don’t know. Why?” she said in a queer, cracked voice.

He leaned in to kiss her, gently—as if asking a question rather than answering one—cupping her face in his hands as his mouth closed over hers. She was zapped by another, stronger jolt of electricity, which shot straight down through the pit of her stomach to her groin. The very air around them seemed charged.

She parted her lips, catching the tip of his tongue between her teeth. He groaned and pulled her close, holding her tightly as the kiss deepened. She sensed he’d wanted this for a very long time, since before he was even fully aware of what he felt. The heat coming off him was that of an engine that’s sat idling too long. There would be no stopping this time.

He pushed the kimono from her shoulders, lightly tracing the curve of her collarbone with his thumbs. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.

She laughed self-consciously. “Freckles and all?”

He nodded and bent to kiss them, one by one, his mouth gradually moving lower. By the time he got to her breasts, she was on fire. She felt a corresponding tug in the deepest part of her when he took a nipple in his mouth and began to suck gently. She let out a long, shuddery breath that was more a moan. She could have come at the slightest touch. When the sensations mounted to the point of exquisite torture, she parted her thighs and guided his hand to her sweet spot.

“Now you,” she whispered after he’d made her come that way. She undid his belt buckle and helped him off with his clothes, then took him in her mouth as he arched his back and plunged his fingers into the damp tangles of her hair. She could feel him quivering on the verge of climax; then he abruptly pulled back. “No, I want to be inside you,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

What had started slow quickly built, their fevered coupling reaching such a pitch, they ended up on the floor at one point, wedged between the sofa and coffee table. With a growl, he gave the table a hard shove, toppling the empty wine bottle and sending a magazine skidding onto the rug. She tore herself away just long enough to make a dash for the bedroom, to get a condom, and then he was on top of her, pushing into her. They rocked together, Angie crying out in mindless pleasure, until he drove into her in a final thrust that blocked everything else from her mind.

When it was over, she lay limp beneath him, as powerless to move as if she’d been struck a blow. Her throat tightened and the backs of her eyes prickled. She’d heard tell of women dissolving into tears in the aftermath, but never having experienced it herself, she’d seen it as a sign of weakness or possibly a subconscious form of manipulation. Now, she understood: Some feelings were simply too big to contain. When she could bestir herself, she eased out from under him, rolling onto her side. “
That
was amazing.” She gingerly ran her fingers over the rug burn on her elbow.

She kissed him before he could respond, letting the pressure of her mouth, the play of her tongue against his, ask the question she didn’t dare voice: Was this a one-time thing . . . or the start of something?

Edward kissed her back, not like a man who ought to have been reaching for his clothes, judging by her past experience with men, but as if to let her know he was hers, if only for tonight.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T
he man at the other end of the phone spoke with a slight but noticeable Indian accent. He was calling on behalf of his boss, he said, and wanted to know if she was free the following Sunday to cater a picnic. “How many people?” Angie asked him as she waved hello to her contractor, Yasser Ali, who’d just walked in with his tape measure. Work on the new space in the Bowery was slated to begin soon; she had all the permits and a crew lined up. Any extra cash would come in handy right now. Though it gave her pause when the man answered, “Two.” A picnic for two hundred people on such short notice was a tall order. She’d have to pull out all the stops and pray it didn’t rain. Still, she thought it was doable. While her contractor went to work measuring door frames, Angie’s mind turned to which dishes would work best for an outdoor event.

“Not two hundred,
two,
” the man corrected when she spoke of renting Porta Sans.

Angie was intrigued. This guy’s boss was willing to pay triple what a picnic lunch from Dean & Deluca or Zabar’s would cost? Probably some rich old dude looking to impress his much younger girlfriend, she concluded. Well, she wouldn’t disappoint. The following Sunday, when Angie arrived at the Seventy-Ninth Street Boat Basin at the appointed hour, she was toting her outsize Harrods of London hamper (an eBay purchase and one of her most prized possessions) packed with goodies: smoked-trout pâté, a sourdough baguette from the Sullivan Street Bakery and selection of cheeses from Murray’s, corn chowder, grilled-chicken-and-avocado sandwiches with chipotle aioli, and a plum tart for dessert. For beverages, there was bottled water and Limonata. And champagne, of course.

The mystery client was waiting by the marina gate. She recognized him even from a distance and cried out in surprised delight. “You sneaky bastard,” she said when she caught up to him.

Edward grinned at her. “Sorry, but it was the only way I could be sure you wouldn’t be booked for another event.” He bent to kiss her on the mouth, then reached to take the hamper from her. “Here, let me help with that. Good God, it’s almost as big as you are. What on earth is in it?”

“Enough to last us through next Christmas.” She followed him to where the boat was moored, a vintage double-decker Chris-Craft, its wooden decking and trim gleaming in the sunlight. She broke into a grin. “Well, if you intend to shanghai me, at least we’re going in style.”

Edward, more casually dressed than she’d ever seen him, in khakis and a navy polo shirt that showed off his muscled chest, paused to admire the boat before they climbed aboard. “Isn’t she a beauty? She belongs to a friend of mine. He said I could use her anytime I liked, so I thought . . .”

“You thought right,” she said, giving him a proper kiss.

Since they’d become lovers, she’d longed to do this: to kiss freely out in the open, like any couple. She’d broken her formerly ironclad rule—never sleep with a married man—and now she was quickly learning what it was to be a mistress. The hard part was having to sneak around. There was also her Catholic guilt, which kind of surprised her, since she had stopped going to church years ago and couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone to Confession. But there it was, nonetheless. She’d regularly think,
I’m committing adultery. I’m an adulteress.

But not today. Today would be a guilt-free day, she decided on the spot. Edward didn’t mention Camille, either, except to say that she’d taken the kids to Southampton for the weekend, in explaining why he wasn’t with his family.

Even the weather was made to order: sunny and dry, with the nip of autumn in the air. Soon they were churning their way up the Hudson in the borrowed thirty-two-foot Chris-Craft, under a picture postcard sky. They waved to other boaters, who waved back. It was close to noon by the time they reached the Tappan Zee. Edward slowed the engine to cruising speed after they’d passed under the bridge, so as to better take in the view of the trees that lined the banks, decked in fall finery, their leaves a tapestry of reds and yellows. As they continued on upriver, they passed through several hamlets but saw fewer and fewer boats. At last, he pulled into shore, anchoring in a secluded spot where weeping willows draped over the water to create a sheltered cove. Then there was just the sound of leaves rustling and water lapping against the hull.

Edward disappeared belowdecks and reemerged a few minutes later carrying a folding table and two chairs. They picnicked onboard, in the shade of the willows. It was the first time Angie had catered an event at which she was a guest—the only guest in this case—and she relished every moment as they devoured the feast she’d prepared. She ate until she thought she’d burst, then tossed the crumbs to the seagulls that flocked around the boat. When the leftovers had been packed up, she leaned back in her chair with sigh of contentment, tipping her head to the sun.

“You should hire me to cater more of your events,” she said. “Seriously, this is the way to go.”

“I would,” he replied, “except, as you know, I’m not much of a party animal.”

She flashed him a wicked grin. “Actually, I was thinking of something a little more, um, intimate.”

They went belowdecks, to the snug cabin which had a built-in bed, where they lay down and kissed until their lips were tender from kissing. They took their time undressing each other. It was like a puzzle in reverse, one that grew closer to completion with each item of clothing removed, until they became, in their nakedness, a perfect, shining whole. He tasted of the champagne they’d drunk and smelled of the outdoors. She wanted to stay tangled in his arms forever.

“Mmm,” she murmured. “I could get used to this.”

“Me, too,” he whispered into her hair as she lay cradled in his arms, the boat rocking gently beneath them.

“We’re like the Owl and the Pussycat.”

“Which one of us is the Pussycat?” he asked.

“You, of course.”

He gave a throaty chuckle. “Only because no one would ever dare call you a pussycat.”

“Damn straight,” she growled. “Never mess with a lady who’s packing knives.”

When they finally surfaced, the sun was low in the sky and the breeze had turned cool. “Time to head back,” he said with regret.
What are we heading back
to
?
she wondered as he started the engine. But she didn’t ask. Why spoil the moment? When she looked back on this day in the weeks and months to come, she wanted to remember it as perfect—the most perfect day of her life.

CAMILLE WAS HEADED
home in a taxicab one chilly afternoon in October, staring out the window lost in thought, when she was pulled from her reverie by her cell phone’s muffled ringtone—Alicia Keyes singing “Empire State of Mind.” She dug the phone from her purse, frowning when she saw the name on the screen. She was tired and out of sorts, having spent the past two hours at the radiology center being plumbed and probed and scanned. The last person she wanted to hear from was the woman who was rapidly becoming her most exasperating client. But it was business, so she rallied and pressed “Talk.” “Kat, hi! You beat me to it. I was just going to call you.”

“You didn’t get any of my messages?” Kat sounded agitated.

“Sorry, I was tied up all morning,” Camille said. “So, how did it go with Jim?”

The current contender for the fair Kat Fisher’s hand was a man named Jim Rawlins, forty-one, handsome in a toothy RFK way, and head of his own software firm. The match looked promising on paper: They were both attractive, intelligent, and career-driven. Not only did they come from similar backgrounds, they’d both grown up in Short Hills, New Jersey, where they’d gone to the same high school (though they hadn’t known each other then—he’d graduated two years before she had). Nevertheless, given Kat’s dismal track record, Camille could only keep her fingers crossed.

She wasn’t surprised, only disappointed, when Kat said, “I’d rather not discuss it over the phone.” Her voice carried the ring of doom, not wedding bells. “Is there any chance we can meet?”

“Of course. How about tomorrow, first thing?”

“I meant today. It’s, um, kind of important.”

Camille suppressed a sigh, thinking of the hot bath she’d planned to sink into when she got home. Before Kat, her most exasperating client had been a fashion designer by the name of Annalise Renaldo. Like Kat, Annalise was famously impossible to please. When Annalise turned forty, Camille suggested she throw a birthday party, to which Camille invited every eligible man she could round up, even the thirtysomethings and over-sixty set. That was how Annalise met the man to whom she was now engaged, sixty-two-year-old Belgian sculptor Christophe Loriaux. Maybe that was what Kat needed, to step outside the box. That, or a good talking-to.

Camille broke one of her cardinal rules—
never, ever give a client your home address
—and fifteen minutes later Kat was at her door, looking as flushed as if she’d arrived on foot, her hair in disarray. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” she said, biting her lip and looking down. Camille had never seen her this way. Gone was the glamorous reporter, and in her place an insecure schoolgirl.

“Not at all.” Camille put a motherly arm around her shoulders as she ushered her inside. Kat seemed distressed. Could the date with Jim really have been
that
bad? “What can I get you to drink? I have some white wine in the fridge,” she said as she led the way into the living room. The housekeeper was long gone and the children still at school, so they wouldn’t be disturbed.

“Sure, that’s fine,” Kat said distractedly as she sank onto the sofa.

Camille went into the kitchen, where she made herself a cup of tea, and while it was brewing, poured a glass of wine for Kat. “Now, what’s this all about? It sounded pretty grim over the phone,” she said when she returned. She handed Kat the glass of wine and settled on the chair opposite her, with her steaming mug. She struck a concerned but not overly dire tone, having learned the best way to keep an agitated client from hyperventilating was to speak in a modulated voice.

Kat took a large gulp of her wine, as if to steady herself. Camille noticed she was trembling. “Well,” she began, looking down at the rug. “The date started out okay, but at the end . . . it got ugly.”

Camille had a sudden, horrifying image of Kat being date-raped. Had mild-mannered Jim Rawlins become a raging maniac after a few drinks? She shuddered at the thought. Never in all the years she’d been a matchmaker had a female client been sexually assaulted, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen. She heard the tremble in her own voice as she asked, “Did he hurt you?”

Kat’s head snapped up and her eyes widened. “Oh, no! Nothing like that. He was the perfect gentleman.”

A wave of relief washed over Camille. She blew on her tea and took a careful sip.
Okay, so it wasn’t Jim. Good.
It was probably some little thing Kat had blown out of proportion, she guessed, like with Dan Zimmer, the wealthy hedge-fund manager who’d preceded Jim Rawlins. Dan had committed the unpardonable sin of picking her up in a white stretch Hummer that, she’d sniffed, made her feel like she was going to a prom in Bayonne. But when Camille saw the tears in Kat’s eyes, she knew it wasn’t a minor thing. Kat was really upset. “What happened?” she asked gently.