Just One Night 1_ The Stranger(10)

“Like the habit of a nun,” he says. “Clothes designed to hide every curve, every alluring detail, a respectable choice for a woman who has chosen a life of chastity. But . . .”

He pauses and brings his hand to the back of my neck. I shiver as his fingers slide up, then down, then up again to the base of my skull, into my hair. “. . . We both know, you’re no nun.”

“I’m dating someone. We’re going to get married.”

“Really?” The corners of his mouth twitch. “Well, habits come in all different forms, don’t they? Some women hide their true selves under multiple layers. Sometimes those layers are made of fabric, some are made of misguided relationships.”

“You don’t know anything about my relationship. You don’t know me.”

“Perhaps not. But I know what you look like when you’re completely stripped of all those layers.”

My skirt hangs straight to my knees; my shirt reveals nothing. And yet I feel naked, standing here on the sidewalk, being quietly inspected by this man whose vision is aided by one intimate night I had recklessly given him.

People are watching. I don’t have to look at the many pedestrians passing by to know it. I feel their gaze the way I felt it in Vegas.

But there is one important distinction: in Vegas audacity has a home. Displaying myself in that tight dress in front of a room full of stares: it fit with the expectations of the city. It’s all detailed in the brochures. Vegas has a fantasy-based economy. It’s just how it is.

But here, standing in front of a Santa Monica office building, miles away from the street performers who line the Promenade, Mr. Dade’s attention is out of place.

People are looking at us. They can see the sparks, feel the tension. They want to know what’s going to happen next.

I want to know what’s going to happen next.

But I can’t give in to that. I suck in a sharp breath, roll my shoulders back, try not to feel their stares, his stare.

“You’ve put me in a difficult position, Mr. Dade.” Is that my voice, filled with convincing but false confidence and composure? Is that me staring into his eyes, as if daring him to push me? “My boss thinks I slept with you to get this account. You’ve compromised my professional reputation.”

He tilts his head to one side as his eyes continue to slide up and down my body the way his fingers moved over my neck only a moment ago. “I don’t throw business to every woman I sleep with. Only the ones with Harvard business degrees.”

“Ah,” I say. “Well then I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t go to Yale.”

I gently pull away from him, turn, and get in my car. His warm laughter follows me as I make my exit.

I’m miles away before I realize he still has my blazer.





CHAPTER 4





IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT. I cook dinner for Dave at my place on Friday nights. Always. It’s a little ritual that erases some of the irksome uncertainty from our lives.

Now he sits at my dining room table eating rosemary chicken and steamed asparagus. A glass of white wine sits untouched by his plate.

“I’ve worked out a budget for the ring,” he says.

“A budget?”

“I was thinking we should spend around twelve thousand,” he suggests. “Twelve thousand buys quality, not flash. We want to keep it real, right?”

I turn my gaze to the glass door leading to my backyard. Dave is always suggesting we keep things real, but he doesn’t seem to actually know what the term means or how to properly apply it.

Do I? When Mr. Dade slid that ice cube up my thigh, when he kissed me in a place where Dave would never kiss me, when he teased me with the flick of his tongue . . . was that real? It had felt more real than anything. And at the same time it hadn’t felt real at all.

I look back at the table. It’s made of a dark-stained wood that’s been polished to an inch of its life. It’s solid, dependable, useful. It’s real. Just like Dave.

Mr. Dade is the first man who has ever made me come while I was standing up. He’s the first man who’s ever seen me naked while he remained fully clothed. Even now I can see him, circling me, assessing, planning, wanting. . . .

I squirmed in my seat.

“Are you all right?” It’s Dave’s voice. The voice of caution and reason. The voice I should be listening to. “You seem . . . agitated tonight.”

The word prickles my skin. “I have a new account . . . the biggest I’ve ever worked on. I suppose it . . . has me on edge.”

“God knows, I relate to that. I’m buried these days, too. You know how it is.”

I do. Dave’s a tax attorney. Like me, he likes things he can count on, and you can always count on the overprivileged to cheat on their taxes. That’s where Dave comes in. The rich give him the money they refuse to share with the IRS, and Dave makes their worries disappear.