The giggle dies, the bubbles popping under the pressure of my disapproval even as my own hypocrisy drums against my temples. He’s only saying he’d do the things that I’ve already done.
“I didn’t have sex with Robert to get ahead,” I say quietly.
Tom shrugs, indifferent to my motivations. It’s the result that pleases him. “I’m just saying that if Dave’s godfather wasn’t Dylan Freeland, it would be a win-win for everyone.”
I watch Tom with new eyes, seeing for the first time how his indifference to morality can serve me. There is no judgment here, just hard practicality that rules his actions and a little lust that he restrains with admirable skill.
“Mr. Freeland is a great businessman,” Tom continues thoughtfully. “But unfortunately for us he’s an even better family man. If he finds out you cheated on his godson, you’re out. He’ll find an appropriate excuse. We have clauses in all of our contracts about behavior with clients, the importance of protecting the firm’s reputation, etcetera, etcetera. He’ll say you traded sexual favors for an account and that’ll be it. It’ll become a matter of public record; Freeland will make sure of that. Your life will get harder.”
As the word leaves his mouth, he winces and shifts his weight uncomfortably. The movement draws my attention downward, making me aware of his physical state and his unintentional pun. With effort I manage not to roll my eyes. It’s silly really, getting so excited over a dress. He could go to any beach to see women wearing less. And if I was any other girl, he would leer or dismiss me as a common slut or perhaps not notice me at all, write me off as another LA, club-going exhibitionist.
It’s the rarity of seeing me vulnerable, of seeing me revealing what I have consistently concealed, that disarms him. He knows I’m not wearing this dress by choice, and, because of that, I sense that he wants to be repelled rather than aroused by the sight of me . . . a sight he has no right to see. It’s a flash of decency in a cold storm of cynicism.
But his body is not cooperating with his whims of conscience and I can’t blame him for that. I can blame Dave, but not him.
Carefully, I clasp my hands in front of me. It feels like every movement moves the dress a little higher. “What can I do?” I ask.
Tom’s eyes flicker to my hemline before going back to the floor. “A counterattack.”
“Against Dave? How? He hasn’t done anything that will turn Freeland away from him. I have nothing on him that will compel him to keep quiet.”
“You’re not being imaginative enough,” Tom says. “Facts can be bought just like any other commodity. Sometimes by barter, sometimes with currency, but they can always be bought.”
It’s then that we hear the pounding on the front door. Tom sighs and shakes his head. “He’ll wake the neighbors with that racket.”
It’s only eight thirty, but the point’s a good one. Tom walks to the foyer, I follow a few feet behind and hang back as Tom opens the door, revealing Dave on his own doorstep, his face an intriguing shade of crimson. “You locked me out on purpose!”
“I did no such thing,” Tom says, the lie light on his tongue. “I have no idea how this happened.”
Dave’s eyes shift to me. “What exactly did you two get up to?”
I almost laugh. He calls Tom here to see me in a state of undress and now he’s worried that Tom might have touched me with more than his eyes? Again, I’m reminded that, like me, Dave is an amateur when it comes to ruthlessness.
Tom sees the humor in this, too, and a small smile plays on his lips. “Are you worried that I’ve already sampled what you’ve brought me here to taste?”
Dave looks stricken. Control is a slippery thing and his grip is weak. I see the way he’s looking at me. The hostility he shoots from his eyes almost hurts.
Almost. That’s the thing about cruelty: as with most venoms, when they are taken in continuous but small doses, one can build up an immunity to it.
“I don’t think I’ll be staying for dinner after all,” Tom says. He turns to me, conspicuously dismissive of the man in front of him. “The wine on the table is all yours . . . although I’m sure you need something stronger.”
“I’ll walk you to your Porsche,” I say.
Tom nods. “Take your key first. That door lock is temperamental.”
Yes, in many ways Tom is smarter than me. His vision isn’t clouded with emotion or pain. I grab my keys from my purse on the console and follow him to the car.
“He’s angry. He doesn’t want to let you go,” Tom says while we walk down the pathway, Dave’s glare pressing against our backs. “No man in his right mind would.”