“What did you have in mind?” she asked.
“Yankees-Red Sox game. Last one in the American League series. Tonight, seven p.m.”
“You’re on,” she said.
She figured he couldn’t be that awful if he was not only willing to take her on again, but was actually willing to change his behavior.
Of course, Lyne Bennett was always going to be an asshole, but that evening, going to the baseball game, he was kind of a sweet asshole. He was already in the car when Bumpy arrived, which meant he had been willing to ride all the way downtown to pick her up. And then they’d driven back up to the helicopter pad on the East River.
“I know you’re rich,” Victory had said, as they walked to the silver chopper balanced on pontoons. “But don’t you think it’s a little excessive to take a helicopter to the Bronx?”
“Yeah, I do,” he said, helping her up. “But the game is in Boston.”
“Oh,” Victory said. And for the usual reasons that are as old as the sexes, the evening progressed beautifully from there.
* * *
WELL, NICO THOUGHT, PULLING on her gloves. What should she do now?
A cold breeze that was as sharp as a knife whipped down Sixth Avenue in front of the restaurant. Catching her breath, she checked her watch, noting that it was only two-thirty. Her daughter, Katrina, would be at the stables until at least four, practicing for a horse show, the arrangements of which were organized by Seymour. In fact, Seymour was probably at the stables right now, along with the other parents who were watching their children ride. This mysterious love of horses was something Seymour and Katrina shared, in which Nico had long ago conceded that she had no interest. Even as a child, she had never understood those horsey girls who came to school with dirty hair, reeking of manure. Of course, Katrina, who rode five days a week at the stables in Chelsea Piers (to the tune of $250 an hour) didn’t smell—she took a shower every morning, and even had her hair and nails done at the salon in Bergdorf Goodman’s once a month. But when Katrina and Seymour started talking horses, she couldn’t help it; her eyes glazed over.
The point was, for the next hour and a half at least, neither Seymour nor Katrina would be wondering where she was.
Or what she was doing.
She snuck a look at her watch again, her heart pounding either from the cold or from excitement. Did she dare? If she did, no one would know. She would say she was going to her office, and then she really would go. This wasn’t suspicious at all. She often worked on weekends. And Wendy had just gone off for an impromptu meeting with a screenwriter and Victory said she was going to her studio to draw.
If she was going to do it, she’d better do it quickly.
She got into a taxi, quickly swiveling her head around to see if anyone was watching. But now she was being paranoid. There was nothing suspicious about getting into a taxi by yourself. There were always a couple of paparazzi in front of Da Silvano these days, and they had snapped off a couple of shots when she and Victory had come out. But they were ignoring her now, perched like crows on a bench in front of the restaurant.
“Columbus Circle,” she said to the driver. If Kirby was home, she could always amend her route.
She took her cell phone out of her bag and looked at it. Maybe she’d better not call him at all. She was getting bolder and bolder, breaking promises to herself at every given opportunity. After that first incident, she told herself she’d never do it again. But after two days, she had called him and gone to his house and had sex with him again. Twice in one afternoon! The second sex act was the closer. If they’d done it only once, she might have been able to escape and never go back. But that second time, her body must have been so starved for good sex that she’d come even harder—harder than she’d ever remembered. And after that, no matter how hard she tried to control herself, her body seemed to have a will of its own. It kept finding ways to go back to Kirby for more.
The whole time Victory was talking about Lyne at lunch, all she could think about was going into the bathroom and calling Kirby. The only thing that prevented her was the idea that Kirby probably wasn’t home. He was a gorgeous young man and it was a Sunday afternoon. He was probably out with friends, whoever his friends were, and maybe even with a girlfriend. Kirby swore he didn’t have one and wasn’t interested, but she didn’t necessarily believe him. It didn’t make sense. “Hey, I’m not a cheater, you know. I only like to do one woman at a time,” he insisted.
That made her wince a little, the fact that he thought of her merely as someone he was “doing.” It was so crude.
But sexy.
She held her breath and dialed his number.
He picked up after three rings. She could tell by the background noise that he wasn’t at home. Her spirits drooped. “Hey,” he said, slightly surprised. “Hey. It’s Sunday.”
“I know,” she said. “I have a little break and I thought maybe we could get together. But it sounds like you’re busy . . .”
“I’m not,” he said quickly. “I mean I am. I’m at brunch . . .”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, trying to hide her disappointment. “We’ll get together next week.”
“Hold on,” he said, lowering his voice. There was the sound of laughter and the clink of silverware, and then silence. “Are you there?” Kirby asked.
“Hello?” she said.
“I’m in the bathroom. Where are you?”
“I’m on my way uptown.”
“Cool,” he said. Now what did that mean, she wondered in frustration. Were they getting together or not? Kirby was always so vague, as if he’d never grasped the idea that language could be used to convey specifics. “Can you get together?” she pressed. “Or not?”
“Yeah. Sure. Why not?” Kirby said. “I mean, not right this second. I’m just waiting for my eggs Benedict to come.”
She was tempted to point out to him that an hour with her should have been more important than his eggs, but she didn’t. “So what should we do?” she asked.
“Why don’t you meet me here, and then I can eat my eggs and we’ll go to my place.”
She pictured herself sitting in a diner, watching Kirby eat his eggs while his friends stared at her, wondering what the hell she was doing there and what Kirby was doing with a woman nearly old enough to be his mother. “Kirby, you know I can’t do that,” she said, sounding, even to herself, slightly desperate. She wondered how young people ever managed to arrange anything.
“Hold on. Lemme think,” Kirby said. There were a few seconds of silence. “I got it,” he finally said. “Meet me outside the restaurant. Call me just before you get here. I’ll probably have finished my eggs by then. We can walk over to my apartment . . .”
It was a risky plan, but having envisioned herself having sex with him all afternoon, she couldn’t give it up. She didn’t know anyone who lived in Kirby’s neighborhood anyway . . . it would probably be fine. “Okay,” she said cautiously. “But Kirby, when I call you, come right out.”
“Hello? I’m not stupid,” Kirby whispered seductively.
She hung up and sat back on the seat, her heart pounding at the thought of seeing him. Now that she knew she was going to see him, she was relieved and nervous at the same time. What if someone saw them walking down the sidewalk together? What if someone saw her going into his building . . . with him?
He was eating eggs, she thought. Eggs Benedict on a Sunday afternoon at brunch. There was something so touchingly mundane about it. It was so hearteningly simple. Kirby was a guy; guys ate eggs on the weekend. Unlike men like Seymour. Seymour acted like eggs were poison. She didn’t think he’d deliberately eaten an egg for over seven years.
* * *
THE TAXI TURNED THE corner onto Second Avenue. She was only two blocks from Kirby’s building. Maybe she should go into his lobby and wait. But that would be more inexplicable than standing on the street.
Nico paid the driver and got out. This would be the last time, she vowed.
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“Hi,” she said, calling his cell phone. “I’m here. I’m standing in front of . . .” she looked up, “a store called Sable’s?”
“I’ll be right there,” he said.
She wrapped her coat more tightly around her, pulling up the fur collar and burying her neck inside. She looked into the window of the store. It was a small caviar and smoked fish shop. “Try Our Lobster Salad!” exclaimed a sign in the window. “Best in New York!”
There was a crowd of people in the fish store. A bell tinkled every time someone went in or out.
“I cannot help myself,” she whispered aloud.
She could just imagine how that excuse would go over with Seymour if she got caught. “Sorry, darling, but he was young and gorgeous, and I couldn’t help it. Women will be women, you know? It’s a biological urge.” It was the same lame excuse men had been giving women forever. She’d never really believed it; never accepted that it could be true. But now she was beginning to understand. It could happen. You could be swept away by a physical desire that was bigger than you were, that was bigger than reason, anyway. All she had to do was to end it before anyone found out. If no one knew about it, did it really matter?
She peered down the street, hoping to see Kirby’s tall, loping figure. Where was he? If he didn’t show up in a minute or two, she was going to have to leave.
It wasn’t fair, she thought desperately. She just wanted to have some good sex before she died. Before she got too old for anyone to find her desirable . . .
The bell above the door tinkled. “Nico?” a man’s voice said.
She froze. This was inevitable, she thought. Any second now, Kirby would come walking up and it would be all over.
She turned. “Hello, Lyne,” she said blandly, as if she weren’t the least bit surprised to run into him. What the hell was he doing here on Second Avenue? she wondered wildly. She’d better not ask him, then he would ask her the same question. And what would she say? “I’m meeting my lover”?
Her brain kicked into automatic pilot. “Saw you in the Post again today,” she said, with a wry, slightly accusing smile.
“Not a bad picture, huh?” he said, tapping her on the arm with a rolled up newspaper as if she were one of his male buddies. Did he know that she and Victory were best friends? Better not bring that up. The back of her neck prickled with fear. Kirby was bound to walk up any second now . . .
“I meant the dog run,” she said coolly.
His face hardened. Victory thought Lyne was “sweet,” and he could be when he wanted to be. But she suspected it was mostly an act. Lyne Bennett was a coldhearted killer who didn’t like to be crossed. “They spun that story way out of proportion,” he said. “My objection is to people not picking up their dog shit. And the city not bothering to enforce the law anymore.”
Why had she brought that up? she wondered, smiling stiffly. Now he’d probably go into a whole diatribe about dog shit. She had to get rid of him . . .
She shrugged, giving him the standard response. “The city’s a mess.”
This worked. He tapped her on the shoulder again with the newspaper and gave the usual rejoinder: “And it’s only going to get worse.”
He turned to go and she breathed a sigh of relief. “See ya,” he said.
She waved.
But then he turned back. “Say,” he said, “speaking of messes, what’s going on at Splatch?”
Oh no. He wanted to talk business. If they started talking business, it would be at least another two or three minutes before she could get rid of him. And Kirby would definitely have turned up by then.
“We should have lunch sometime and talk about it,” she said, as if this would ever happen.
He didn’t take the bait. Instead, he moved closer, hunkering down in front of her as if preparing to have a chat. “What’ya think about Selden Rose?” he demanded.
Oh God. She was going to have to brazen this out somehow. Lyne’s question required some kind of answer, but more disturbingly, why was Lyne Bennett interested in Selden Rose? A few possibilities flitted through her brain, including the idea that Lyne thought Selden Rose might actually take over from Victor Matrick. The thought made her sick and slightly angry.
She turned her head. Kirby was now walking up the sidewalk toward them. He was less than five hundred feet away . . .
She turned back to Lyne as if Kirby hadn’t registered. Her heart felt like it was beating right in her throat. She coughed, putting her gloved hand over her mouth. “That depends on why you want to know, Lyne,” she said.
“Just curious,” he replied. She could feel Kirby’s presence right behind her. The muscles in her legs suddenly felt as if they were about to give way.
“Lyne!” Kirby exclaimed. He punched Lyne in the shoulder. Lyne spun around, his face changing from annoyance to a sort of hearty male pleasure. “Eeeeeh. Kirby, my man,” Lyne said, suddenly taking on the demeanor of a twenty-five-year-old guy, holding up his palm for a high-five. Kirby slapped it. Then they hugged, patting each other on the arms.
“How ya doin’, man?” Kirby asked, avoiding looking at Nico. She arranged her face into an expression of patient annoyance.
“Coming to St. Barts this year?” Lyne asked him. Kirby swayed from one foot to the other, putting his hands in his pockets and pulling his tweed coat tight across his ass. Nico couldn’t help looking at it.
“That depends,” Kirby said. “You inviting me on your yacht this year?”
Lyne cleverly avoided answering him by turning to Nico. “Do you know Nico O’Neilly?” he asked.
She looked at Kirby, giving him the coldest face she could muster. Please, Kirby, she prayed, don’t be stupid right now.
“Yeah . . . ?” Kirby said, looking at her hesitantly as if he wasn’t sure or couldn’t remember. “I think we might’a met once before.”
“Maybe,” Nico said dismissively, deliberately not holding out her hand. Lyne turned back to Kirby to say good-bye, and Nico took the opportunity to get away.
“Nice to see you, Lyne,” she said, pointing at the fish store. “I’ve got to . . .”
“Oh, yeah,” Lyne said, waving her away. “Best caviar prices in the city.”
She nodded as if she knew that, and opened the door. A whoosh of warm, pungent air rushed out at her. The bell tinkled.
* * *
“HERE’S YOUR PRESENT,” SHE said, handing Kirby a tin of Beluga caviar. “For being such a good boy.”
“Thanks,” he said, taking the tin from her and putting it down on the glass coffee table. They were standing in the living room of his apartment. Kirby had finally gotten away from Lyne and gone home, and she had followed him after waiting in the store for fifteen minutes. He placed his body right up against hers. “If I’d known I would get caviar for lying to Lyne Bennett, I’d do it every day,” he said into her neck.
“I wouldn’t make a habit of it, darling,” she said.
“How about making a habit of this?” he asked. He suddenly pushed her down, bending her face-down over the arm of the couch. He straddled her legs, his hands reaching around to the front of her pants to undo the zipper. “You’re a bad girl, aren’t you?” he said, tucking his hands into the sides of her pants and yanking them down to her ankles. He rubbed her bare ass with the palm of his hand. “Did you like that?” he asked. “You almost got caught. You’re a very bad girl . . .”
He slapped her ass. She let out a cry of surprise and pleasure. He lifted her onto the floor, placing himself behind her. “No,” she said weakly.
“No, what?” he said. He slapped her ass again. And there, on his eighty percent discounted Ralph Lauren leopard-print carpet, they had the best sex ever.
“See?” Kirby said afterward, sitting on the couch naked with one foot crossed over his other thigh. “I told you I could act.”
Chapter 5
THERE WAS, NICO O’NEILLY THOUGHT, AN OWNERSHIP in sex. If you owned your sex life, you owned the world.
Or felt l
ike you did, anyway.
For the last six weeks, ever since she’d begun her naughty friendship with Kirby, she’d been on top of the world. Her walk was brisk, her remarks sharp. She smiled a lot and made jokes. She had various parts of her body waxed and preened. She was filled with desire—not just for Kirby, but for life.
And other people had begun to take notice.
She never would have imagined it, but Kirby Atwood was inadvertently helping her career.
About a month had passed since that Sunday afternoon when they’d run into Lyne Bennett. It was a close call, but as she’d guessed, Lyne hadn’t considered it of enough importance to mention it to Victory. Still, the thrill of almost getting caught, and then not, was exciting, and she’d become bolder and bolder, secretly arranging for Kirby to show up at some of the cocktail parties and events she was required to attend almost every evening. They had never done anything in public except talk, but the fact that Kirby was there, that he was watching her and she could steal glances at him, made what might have been a dull evening so much more interesting. She loved the feeling of power it gave her, of having a secret that no one else could even begin to suspect. As she moved through the warm, overly decorated party rooms in December, doing business, schmoozing, always subtly but calculatingly putting herself forward, she felt untouchable.
There had been that brief emotional thump during the Christmas vacation in Aspen, when she’d felt exhausted and empty and alone, even though she and Seymour and Katrina had been on top of each other in that small, two-bedroom suite at the Little Nell hotel. But the slight depression had passed the minute they’d landed at JFK. Poor Kirby hadn’t gone on Lyne’s yacht after all (it always surprised her that he knew Lyne, but beautiful young men like Kirby tended to get around), and instead had gone to his family’s house in St. Louis. They had finally met up the first Thursday after the New Year—she had efficiently cut a lunch short and skittled up to his apartment. For the first ten minutes, he’d been in a mood, sitting on the couch trying to insert a new battery into a remote control, and every now and then looking up at her with a baleful expression on his face. He finally managed to get the battery in properly and turned on the TV. “So,” he said, pretending to be interested in the “Ellen DeGeneres Show.” “Did you sleep with him?”