The Successor (17 page)

She moaned as he reached beneath her pinstripe skirt, lifted it, and pulled her thong to one side, then smoothly slipped a finger into her. Her fingernails dug into his back as he moved it in and out several times quickly—she’d told him downstairs that was how she liked to start. Then he led her to the bed and pulled the clothes from her body, pushed her down onto the mattress hard, stepped out of his boxers, knelt on the bed, hiked her legs up over his shoulders, and thrust inside her.

She arched instantly, pushing her chin back and her throat up. He ran his lips and tongue along the soft skin of her neck, then bit, causing her to moan loudly and thrust up against him several times in rapid succession. She was beautiful, but he wasn’t going to be selfish. He wanted to feel good—and he would—but there was another, more important agenda to this afternoon. Thank God he’d been flirting with her for a while, bringing her into his confidence. He’d picked just the right day, too: Laurel distribution day. She’d already been high as a kite on the money before ever getting the first sip of that martini.

He made love to her for a long time, growing gentler and gentler by the minute. She’d consumed four tall martinis during their hour downstairs and was drunk, probably unable to have an orgasm at this point—he’d found that, like men, most women lost that ability when they had too much to drink. But unlike men—who wanted it even more when they were drunk—women didn’t care. They derived pleasure from simply being intimate.

Marshall kissed her breasts, drawing circles around her nipples with his tongue as he pulled out of her and moved to one side, running his fingers down over her soft belly, then lower, stroking her lightly the way his wife had always wanted him to.

“Oh, Jesus,” she murmured, kissing his forehead. “I love older men, I just
love
older men.”

He whispered in her ear as he manipulated her, telling her how beautiful she was, telling her the different things he wanted to do to her. How he’d been fantasizing about her ever since he’d come to Everest. He kissed his way down her stomach, then knelt between her legs and tongued her gently for a long time, until she was moaning to him that she couldn’t take any more. He rolled her over gently and brought her to her hands and knees, pushing himself inside her again. Until she was lying flat against the mattress, arms and legs spread wide. Moving in and out more and more slowly, massaging her upper back and neck as he followed her down.

Finally he hesitated, still half inside her, and listened to her breathe. Slow and deep, slow and deep. She’d passed out. He chuckled as he got out of bed and stole across the room to the door. There, he knelt down and went through her purse carefully, trying not to disturb anything. It had taken all his self control not to explode several times, but that self-control had paid off, he thought to himself, picking up the woman’s magnetic swipe card to the Everest elevator and holding it up in front of his face. Bingo. Now he had something to bargain with—or at least the opportunity to find something.

He moved to a far corner of the room and picked up his suit coat, which lay across the back of a chair, and slipped the card into an inside pocket. Then he moved back to the bed, rolled the woman onto her back, and shook her chin until her eyes finally fluttered open. “Hey, wake up.” He’d gotten what he needed, now he was going to get what he wanted.

MELISSA AWOKE
with a start as a Metroliner burst past in the other direction on the next track over, causing the window she was resting her head against to shudder. She’d been having an awful dream about her father leaving her and her mother eight years ago. He’d been flaunting his bimbo in front of them, and it had turned out to be one of the girls she’d been having drinks with at Elaine’s the night of the Academy Awards.

As she came to full consciousness, she had that eerie feeling of being watched again, but she wasn’t sure if it was just what was left of the dream. She glanced back over her shoulder just in time to see a man moving through the doorway at the end of the swaying car, headed for the bar, which was in the next car back. No way to tell how long he might have been staring at her—or who the hell he was.

She glanced at her watch. She’d be in New York in an hour. She had to keep telling herself not to have feelings for Christian, to treat this like any other acting gig. But those gray eyes of his kept haunting her.

She moaned and eased back in the seat, irritated with herself. It seemed as if everything were haunting her tonight.

12

IT WAS AN ODD FEELING
for Christian. Sitting down to an intimate dinner with a woman who was probably half his age and realizing that, despite all his attempts to ignore it, there was a spark of romance for him.
And
realizing that he was more than just a little interested to know if there was a spark for her, too.

Beth hadn’t been specific about her age—she’d joked about the big 3-0 being right around the corner—but Christian figured she couldn’t be more than twenty-five. She was probably trying to make herself seem older so the age difference wouldn’t loom so large. Wouldn’t be that big gorilla sitting in the corner that neither of them wanted to talk about.

Beth hadn’t been specific about a lot of things. Maybe “not forthcoming”—as Quentin had put it—was a better way to describe how she’d been on the way back to Washington in the car. Quentin had said something about how evasive she’d acted as soon as they’d dropped her off. Said the hour they’d spent with her had reminded him of times he’d tried to interrogate captured enemy intelligence officers: She’d never directly refused to answer any of their questions, but she’d always managed to divert the focus to something else, turn the conversation back on them before they could say anything or tease them about how they were so interested in her. She was mysterious—which only made her more attractive to Christian. He had to admit that to himself. Beautiful and mysterious. A spellbinding combination.

He’d chosen a small Italian place on the Upper West Side for dinner. He knew the owner—had personally loaned the guy money to start the place a few years back—so he had his own table in a quiet corner whenever he wanted it and, more important, he had privacy. No one would bother them while they were eating. No chance one of the waiters would tip off a cameraman at the
Post
or the
Daily News
that he was there so the guy could snap a picture as he came out, either. Which had happened a few times at other places.

Much to the delight of people at Everest—and much to his own irritation—he’d turned up constantly over the last few years on the city’s most eligible bachelor lists. So, like others on the list, he sometimes found himself the object of the paparazzi, each one trying to be the first to break the story of whom he was with. It wasn’t anything like the chaos that followed movie stars and pop singers when they went out in Manhattan, but it was still annoying.

He shuddered at the thought of a photo of Beth and him making it into one of the daily newspapers. Shuddered even harder thinking about the captions: “Gillette Robs the Cradle” or “Girlfriend…or
Daughter
?” His investors would be shocked, and he’d be explaining the pictures for months.

So the question that kept gnawing at him was, why was he here? Beth Garrison was at least twenty years younger than him, and he didn’t know a damn thing about her. Sure, he loved mystery, but he could find that a lot of places. And despite the privacy he felt confident he’d have at this place, there was still a chance that someone might recognize him and the word would get out. Then he’d have all that explaining to do—including to Allison. And the explaining to Allison wouldn’t have anything to do with the age difference.

There wasn’t anything official between Allison and him, but they both felt a deep affection and attraction for each other. They’d never actually said that to each other, but they both knew it was there. And there’d been a kind of unofficial understanding between them that they wouldn’t see anyone else, at least not regularly, without telling the other—which was what had bothered him about her being
so
up on Jim Marshall’s divorce. It made him think that she was closer to Marshall than she was letting on, maybe even dating him.

In fact, Christian had told Allison that if it turned out he was Jesse Wood’s vice president, it would be a perfect chance for them to start a romantic relationship. He’d even pictured her as the first lady eight years down the road, if he’d been fortunate enough to go on to be president. But that hadn’t worked out, and she’d been disappointed. So had he—about not being VP and not being able to get closer to her—but he’d never told her, never let on. Just buried himself in his work.

When he was being completely honest with himself, he knew they would make a great couple, knew Allison could be a perfect match for him. Intelligent, fun, reliable, generous, a person who despite the wealth she’d been raised with didn’t take herself too seriously and didn’t let those around her take themselves too seriously—she was all the things he valued in a woman. Basically, she was perfect for him.

So then
why
was he here tonight?

He couldn’t come up with a good answer—with any answer, really—but he knew one thing for sure: He’d been looking forward to tonight a lot. He’d been checking his watch all afternoon—the minute hand had seemed to
crawl
from Roman numeral to Roman numeral—he’d changed his tie three times, and he’d ended an important conference call early, well before he should have. Ended it before there’d been a resolution with the portfolio-company management team, telling everyone on the call that they’d have to pick up where they left off tomorrow. He’d overheard one of the Everest vice presidents in the conference room saying something about how “Christian doesn’t do
that
every day” to another VP as they were walking out.

Well, Christian didn’t have a date with a twentysomething knockout every day, either. Of course, it wasn’t really a date. As he and Quentin were getting close to where she’d asked them to drop her off in Washington the other night, she’d mentioned that she was going to be in New York, and his dinner invitation had just sort of tumbled out. She’d accepted right away. Quentin had given him so much heat for it on the way back to New York, flat out telling him to cancel the dinner several times, but he hadn’t folded. Which was more proof of how interested he was in tonight. Usually he listened to Quentin. In the past, when he hadn’t listened, he’d ultimately wished he had.

Maybe doing this whole thing was just a way to prove to himself that it could never work out with a woman who was so much younger. He’d see by the end of the evening that they had absolutely nothing in common and be done with the fantasy. Or maybe it was to reassure himself that someone as young as Beth could still be interested in him. It was a tough thing to admit, that he could have that insecurity, but at least he could admit it. Hopefully she’d say something nice, something that made it clear she wouldn’t mind this going further, and that would do it for him.

He took a deep breath. This was so unlike him. But somehow that was what made it so compelling.

God, getting older was tougher than he’d anticipated. His father had mentioned how bad it was a couple of times when Christian was younger, but he hadn’t really listened. Be nice if his father were around now. Be nice to talk to him about all this.

“Thank you.” Beth smiled at him as he held the chair out for her. “You’re such a gentleman.”

“You should really thank my dad,” Christian said. “He was a stickler for manners, especially when it came to how to treat a lady. Taught me everything. He probably should have been born in a more chivalrous time, not twentieth-century America. He liked being an investment banker and all, but I think he would rather have been someone’s knight in shining armor.”

“My mother was the same way,” Beth said as she sat down. “She always wanted to be the princess in the tower, wanted the knight to come rescue her. But my father never did.”

Christian heard naked truth in Beth’s voice for the first time, something he hadn’t heard in the car on the way to Washington—and he liked it. “It’s interesting you say that. My mother never cared that my father held doors for her, got her coat, or that he made a point of walking closest to the street on the sidewalk. All she cared about was the money.”

“Mom never cared about the money. All she cared about was my father.”

They locked eyes for a second. Damn, she looked nice. Typically, he preferred blondes—like Allison—didn’t usually go for brunettes, especially when they wore their hair short. But Beth made it work, she definitely had the look. And those smiles of hers were killers. He’d already noticed about ten different ones. Most people he knew gave away their emotions with their eyes. With Beth, it was her mouth.

“Sounds like
they
should have been together,” he said after a few moments. “You look really nice.”

She touched his hand gently as he sat down next to her. “Thanks.”

“What would you like to drink?” he asked.

“I’ll have a glass of cabernet.”

“She’ll have that Rothschild you serve by the glass,” he said as the waiter made it to the table. Allison had liked that wine very much the last time they’d come here—about six months ago.

“Sure.” The young man smiled smugly and glanced down at Beth’s bare legs. She was wearing a short dress. “I’ll need to see your ID, ma’am.”

Christian had caught a curious expression on the young man’s face, too. As if he couldn’t figure out what the relationship was here. Father-daughter? Boss-employee? An expression that told him the waiter figured something was going on other than just two people enjoying a nice dinner.

Beth shrugged apologetically. “I don’t have it with me, Christian. I left it in my other purse. It’s back at the apartment where I’m staying.”

Christian waved to the owner, who was at the maître d’ stand checking the reservation list. There were only twenty tables in the entire place so the little man got to them quickly.

“Yes, Christian?” he asked in a thick Italian accent. “Anything at all I take care of?”

“Vincent, Beth left her ID in her other purse,” Christian explained, gesturing toward her. “I’m sorry to ask but—”

“No problem,” Vincent assured them, waving both pudgy hands in front of his face. “I take care of everything,” he promised, tugging the waiter away from the table.

Beth leaned toward Christian. “I take it you have some pull here.”

“Vincent likes me.”

“Vincent
owes
you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“When people like you, they pat you on the back and tell you they just had a warning from the local alcohol control board and their hands are tied. That there’s nothing they can do about your ID issue, whether they really just had the warning or not.” She nodded at the waiter, who was already headed back toward them with a glass of red wine on his tray. “When they owe you, they can’t do favors for you fast enough.” She nodded at the waiter. “All of a sudden our waiter’s gone from leering at me to being your personal black Lab.”

The waiter placed the glass in front of Beth. “Signorina.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry about the mix-up,” the waiter said to Christian. “I make sure everything is very good for you tonight, very good. What can I get you to drink?”

“Bottled water, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t you want some wine?” Beth asked as the waiter moved off.

“I don’t drink.”

“Why not?”

There she went again. “No, no. We’re going to find out about you first. Quentin and I talked a lot about you after we dropped you off in D.C., and we both agreed that you’re very good at avoiding questions.”

“Well, thanks. Now tell me why you don’t drink.”

She had a way about her, that was for sure. A way of getting what she wanted when she wanted it. She was feisty in a sexy way. That little pout was mesmerizing. “I wrapped my father’s car around a redwood tree one night when I was in high school after drinking a case of beer, and I almost died. He and I had a long talk when I got better, when I was ready to drive again. He didn’t read me the riot act or put me on a guilt trip about it, just told me he’d done the same thing when he was my age. And that he’d never had another drop of alcohol after that. He was a damn successful man, so I listened to him. I’m glad I did.” Christian nodded at her glass. “But I don’t have any problem at all with people who do enjoy a drink. In fact, sometimes I wish I could, too. Sometimes it’s all I can do not to order a drink. But I made a choice, and I’ve stuck to it.”

“Sounds like your dad’s had a big influence on your life.”

They’d have to spend the rest of dinner talking about it for her to really understand
how big
that influence had been. “Yeah.”

“Do you still see him a lot?”

“He died, Beth. A long time ago.”

The corners of her mouth dipped and her face stiffened. “I’m sorry.”

He thanked her, then noticed that she was looking at a painting on the far wall, but that her focus was miles beyond it. He thought he could see moisture building up on her lower lids. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, don’t stonewall me already. We just sat down.”

“That’s what they say about
you,
isn’t it? You’re the man who can handle anything, the man who never loses his cool when everyone else is flipping out. But it’s impossible to get behind that stone-wall surface.”

There it was
again.
Her ability—maybe it was an instinct now that he thought about it—to volley the focus of the conversation right back on him.

“At least, that’s what a lot of interviewers say about you,” she added.

“Did your research, huh?” But she must not have done it too thoroughly. If she had, she would have known about his father. There were all kinds of articles about the plane crash out there. “Went right to the Net?”

“Of course, I always go right to the Net when I want to find out something. After all, I’m twenty-two. I’ve grown up with it.” She hesitated, realizing how that might have sounded. “Not that you wouldn’t, too.”

Well, at least he’d gotten a specific age out of her, and at least for the time being she wasn’t quite half his. “But not as fast as you would,” he said, “because, after all, I’m forty-three and I
didn’t
grow up with it.”

“I didn’t mean anything by that, I was just saying—”

“It’s okay.” He slid the salt shaker back and forth on the linen tablecloth for a few moments. “What were you thinking about when you were looking over there?” he asked, pointing at the painting. “When I told you my dad was dead.”