For All the Wrong Reasons (5 page)

Ernie slid his thin frame into the ancient leather armchair and flicked on his computer, the only modern touch in the room. His stocks came up, and he cast an eye over his portfolio. How long could the Dow go on this crazy run? Almost indefinitely, maybe. He couldn't concentrate on trades tonight. His mind was running on Blakely's: not the sad, overpaid, underworked old war-horses, company men since their early twenties, who he'd fired today, but the PR girl from Hastings Inc., their new contractors.

Mira Chen. She was probably twenty-five, but she looked younger, apart from that icy, bitchy curve to her lip. Thin as a rail with small, curved breasts which jutted out at an unnatural angle, definitely fake. Their fakeness aroused him. She was a girl who liked to show it off. Her dresses were tight, dark, low-cut, worn with a jacket so snug it made him wonder if she was wearing a corset. Yeah … a corset cutting off her blood flow, pinching, pushing the little apple boobs upward, trying to make something of them. Her long nails were painted bright red. How the hell she typed with them, he didn't know. Mira's thin lips, too, were always scarlet. Ernie thought about her pale, creamy skin, the eyebrows that she had plucked so thin she had pencil up there in place of them. It was a fake, painted look. He loved it.

What's more, as Mira shuffled her papers, and pretended to listen to her boss giving the presentation, she had looked over at Ernie. He was good at reading the faces of his lackeys. Ms. Chen was showing neither fear nor agitation. Rather, the look she sent him was slow, assessing and cruel. Ernie had found his throat drying up. He had snuck a look at the skinny, muscular legs protruding from the tight little tube of a skirt; encased in see-through black hose, they tapered down to a pair of high, arched heels, black, with little spiked metal stiletto heels. It must hurt her feet to be crammed into those, he had thought vaguely through the cloud of lust that enveloped him. When the presentation finished, Ernie told Dick Hastings, her boss, that they should meet again.

“I have more questions.”

“Let's rearrange,” Dick said, smoothly. “Unfortunately I have a three o'clock uptown.”

“No problem. One of your co-workers could probably help me out. You.” Ernie turned to Mira. “You're free now, right?”

“Absolutely, Mr. Foxton.” She had a nasal Brooklyn tint to her voice, and she was eager. He imagined Mira was a thrusting, grasping little bitch. The way her colleagues glanced at her suggested to Ernie she wasn't well liked. But she had a tiny, compact little ass, as flat as a boy's. Who cared about popularity contests?

His gushing secretary showed out the other suits, bowing and scraping, and Ernie shut the door behind them, turning to Mira.

“Interesting presentation.”

“I noticed you were gripped,” Mira said.

Ernie scowled. He wasn't used to being sassed by people at work, especially women. He opened his mouth to rebuke her, but she held up one hand with those sharp talons. “I think public relations is very complex. I'd feel more comfortable discussing this in a social setting. That is, of course, if you found that acceptable, Mr. Foxton.”

There it was again, that tightening in his groin. As he looked at her, Mira ran the tip of a pink tongue across her glossy red lips. A coffee, Ernie thought. What could that hurt? And he was the boss. Nobody would dare to complain.

“I could probably give you half an hour,” he said, briskly.

Mira's mouth curled up at the corners in a slow, deliberate smile. She knew a mark when she saw one. With some men it was written right across them, all she ever needed to do was lay the bait. If a man didn't respond, no harm done.

Ernest Foxton had a fearsome reputation for ruthlessness, but he also had that thin, petty look about him that usually meant only one thing.

He liked to be treated badly and dominated by women. The gossip was that his wife was a stuck-up, spoiled, ladylike little princess. She would be no threat. The seedy clubs Mira went to were full of high-powered businessmen with a weak streak somewhere deep inside that got off on pain. Only last week she had been forced to finish with her ex-boyfriend, the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, something to do with industrial machinery, or some such. His wife had found out, which was too bad. Mira had definitely been discreet, as long as the gifts kept coming. Most likely the moron had shouted out her name in his sleep. At any rate, the sugar daddy—sugar slave—position was vacant. And if she knew men, Ernie Foxton was a prime candidate to fill it.

“That would be great.” Mira stared at him coldly. “There's a coffee place not far from here that I like.”

Without a word, Ernie gathered up his notes and followed Mira out of his office. Through the opulently decorated lobby, she kept up a loud stream of chatter about brand management and focus groups and Internet presence. Ernie told his assistant they were stepping out for a meeting. He wasn't listening to what the woman was saying. His gaze kept trickling down her hard legs to the spiked metal stilettos. He found his throat was dry.

She kept up the talking until they were a block away from the coffeehouse. Ernie sprang to open the door for her. She didn't thank him. She indicated a banquette away from the window and he sat there, quietly. The place was gloomy, although it was noon outside. Looking up, Ernie saw that there were erotic prints set against the black walls, 1930s maybe, ink etchings of women—semi-nude—with whips, restraining men. Homoerotic pictures, too. The ambiance was dark and, as he looked around, he saw the patrons were well-dressed, but furtive. It felt secret and forbidden and terribly exciting.

A waiter materialized into view from nowhere and turned to Mira.

“I'll have herbal tea. He'll take black coffee,” she said, shortly.

As the man sidled off, Ernie looked at Mira. The expression in her eyes was such that he didn't say a word. He swallowed, dryly.

“I don't take my coffee black,” he muttered, after a while.

She looked him over with contempt and reached under the table. Ernie felt her talons dig into his hand as she grabbed it, waiting just a second to feel if there was any resistance. Then his hand hit something cool and smooth and firm. Her skinny thighs, as tight as a man's. He gasped with excitement. His cock hardened, he was suddenly afraid to move, afraid that anybody could pass by and see the state of him. Damn, she was a bitch. And a slut. His fingertips, squeezed so tight in her grip that the blood was cut off, were feeling her pussy now. No panties, and she was shaved totally smooth.

Ernie groaned.

“You'll take your coffee exactly how I tell you to take it,” Mira hissed.

FIVE

The days rolled on, and Diana was satisfied. At least, she kept telling herself that. Her little dinner parties, given with élan and verve, were the talk of the town, not least because Diana made sure to invite all the gossip columnists, flattering them shamelessly. Ernie's business was going well, too, from the looks of things. The stock price of the company had risen after his first month in charge, and that was all she wanted or needed to know. Diana was more concerned with digging out the
right
—it was her new favorite phrase. There were many stylists dotted around the soaring skyscrapers, but Diana wanted to find the
right
one—the man with the best razor cuts to trim her long hair, to keep it glossy and perfect. The
right
dinner guests, the delicious mix of celebrities, socialites, big businessmen, and one or two scandal-hit divorcées, with perhaps a poverty-stricken but talented poet thrown in somewhere. She had already picked the
right
decorator, and with the help of her friends, she was aiming to find the
right
everything. From pedicurists to psychics, New York had its favorites—but, Diana thought, sighing, it was so
boring
to follow the crowd. As if she would be seen dead in a pashmina shawl, for example. There was a very fine line between stylish and fashion victim. Perhaps it was the incessant sameness of New York moneyed life that had her … well … restless.

She was meeting Natasha, Jodie and Felicity at L'Urbane, the newest hot spot, run by two Frenchwomen who promised to steal all the crowds away from Bliss. There was a three-month wait for an appointment, if you were one of the peasants. My girlfriends don't fall into that category, Diana thought smugly. And apparently the hour-long oxygen facials would give you a complexion to die for. She studied her own smooth skin in the mirror of the solid-gold Cartier compact Ernie gave her after her last dinner party got him a great write-up in the papers. He was revelling in being a social lion, getting the kind of acceptance in the States he could never get at home. Back there, Diana thought, her husband would always be second to her. It was the quietly inflexible class system that Ernie would never be able to buck. In America, with the right kind of press, he could make it.

And America was all about status. Ernie drew a lot of satisfaction from it, Diana mused, why couldn't she? She was doing everything right. So what was missing? Love? That was a fairy story girls should grow out of when they grew out of Cinderella. The best thing you could hope for was to find a guy who you got on with, who didn't bother you overmuch, and who didn't paw you in bed. She had no complaints about Ernie in that regard. Since the job had kicked in, he hardly ever wanted sex, and when he did, it was dutiful, fast and distasteful. Diana gritted her teeth and just prayed he would keep away from her. She'd read in
Glamour
that 80 percent of women never had an orgasm. Was that true? She looked at her rich girlfriends' husbands and thought it might be.

Sex was for men. Sex for women was a huge myth. It was better to seek real pleasure from life, Diana told herself. She had a rich husband, a life of luxury, she was young, and beautiful, and envied, and never had to do a stroke of work. It was … she grinned to herself softly … the American dream. The ennui would pass, she must just be tired. A life of leisure could be exhausting. Maybe this spa would be the thing to refresh her.

The limo pulled in smoothly to the curb, her driver easily negotiating the Fifth Avenue traffic. L'Urbane's frontage, a quietly opulent canopy of bronze silk, was spread out to welcome her. Diana slid out of the car while Richard held the door open for her. She tugged her tailored jacket closer around her breasts, snugly encased in La Perla mocha lace this morning, and gave a tiny smile to the hot-dog vendor who whistled as she strutted into the lobby.

The girls were waiting for her. Diana gave them a little wave.

“Darlings, it's so good to see you.”

“Diana! At last.” Natasha stood, all skinny blond elegance, and moved to kiss the air at the side of her face. Jodie and Felicity waggled manicured fingers and gave her the small grimaces that passed for smiles among many New York wives since the press broke the story that smiling gave you wrinkles.

Natty Zuckerman was married to a press mogul, Jodie Goodfriend to an investment banker, and Felicity Metson was recently divorced from a real-estate magnate. Felicity was the youngest of the three, just a little older than Diana, and was her closest friend over here. She was currently dating a US Marine Major stationed at Fort Hamilton, and liked to give Diana all the juicy gossip. And wasn't gossip the best thing in the world—after a nice designer sale at Bloomingdale's?

“Shall we go in? It's the seaweed wrap to start with,” Felicity said, eagerly.

“Sounds good.” Diana smiled at her friend, vaguely aware that Jodie and Natasha sometimes gave Felicity a hard time, just because she was divorced, which was unfair, of course. Some people were just tolerated. Diana tossed her newly platinum bob, her roots eliminated as of nine that morning, her head covered in a glossy cloud of corn-gold, shining hair.

“Ladies. Please to come this way.” A beautiful Indian lady in a sari of rich crimson and gold appeared before them, bowing low. The changing rooms were individual, of course, and inlaid with mosaics on the floor. The taps were gold-plated, and the countertop solid marble in pale pink. L'Occitane shea butter and honeysuckle soap was laid out for her, next to a crystal vase crammed with roses and the delicate buds of actual honeysuckle blooms. Wow, Diana thought. The Americans certainly know how to pamper a woman.

She knew she ought to be thrilled at the thought of a half day of massage in the company of her girlfriends. Impatient with herself, Diana struggled into her swimsuit and shook her head. She
would
enjoy this. New things, she found, always alleviated the boredom.

*   *   *

Michael Cicero stretched in the half light of dawn. His arms felt like they were on fire. Three sets of curls with thirty-pound weights had made his biceps scream, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself through it. Exercise was the physical stress that helped him cope with the mental stress of running his company. Besides, he didn't intend to allow his muscles to slide. Guys today, many of them, looked like they could hardly lift a gallon of milk without panting. Just because he wore a suit didn't mean that he was going to go soft.

He pushed himself up lightly on the balls of his feet and stepped into the shower. Getting up at four
A.M.
to sneak out of a girl's apartment was tiring, but it had some definite advantages. He didn't have to worry about hustling her out while not appearing rude. The chick had been attractive, too, Jessica, an old flame he called up periodically, a grad student at NYU, one of those cool chicks with an out-there CD collection and a nice line in little leather backpacks. She wore her hair too short for his taste, but she was very well-endowed, and with those tits bouncing toward him, he could forget other aesthetic considerations. Jessie was ravenous in bed. She didn't want a relationship and neither did he. He enjoyed her simply, clutching her back as he thrust into her, making her buck and wriggle, his hand gently trailing over her pussy, teasing her while he thrust. Michael liked his women responsive and took the time to make sure they were. In his opinion there were no frigid women, just lousy lovers. He grinned at his steamy reflection in the bathroom mirror. Most guys were weak and couldn't hit it. That helped him. When women found a guy who could make them pant, they'd do anything for him.