Robert Dade is not in awe of me, but I do think he trusts me.
Just the thought of him is delicious. Two weeks ago I didn’t know what it felt like . . . to be pressed against a wall, to be propped up on a desk, to be made love to on the floor of the Venetian. Two days ago I didn’t have the mental image of me, in his office, on my knees. . . .
Two weeks ago, the length of a lifetime, I didn’t know that you could feel completely vulnerable and completely powerful all at once.
The guilt creeps in, numbing some of the pleasure of my reminiscence. My angel and devil are at war again. The devil has framed my memories and is holding them up for my inspection, knowing that I want to indulge and massage them . . . and massage the man who made me feel these things.
But my angel . . . my angel is screaming. She wants the images to burn.
But shouldn’t it be the devil who advocates the burning of memories? Roles are getting reversed. What’s a woman supposed to do when her angel starts using her devil’s tools?
What’s a sinner supposed to do when all her devil asks her to do is face the truth, both of her actions and the way she feels about them?
Because the truth is that I don’t regret any of it. I just want to regret it. I can’t confess my sins in the spirit of contrition. Absolution is completely out of reach.
Last night Dave lied about never being tempted. Was there more he was lying about? Did his lies free me to explore my possibilities?
I shake the thought out of my head. “I’ll just do my job,” I say aloud. Surely that isn’t wrong.
I go to my bedroom and open up my closet. A sea of dark skirts and trousers and light-colored blouses greets me. I’m instantly bored. Why don’t I ever buy anything more lively? Who says I have to dress like a prep school librarian?
Impatiently I push aside garment after garment until I find the suit Simone gave me for my birthday last year. She had dragged me to her favorite boutique and thrust me into a dressing room before throwing a pair of gray pants and a matching blazer after me. The color felt natural but the fit was different. The pants clung a little closer than I was accustomed to. The curves of my legs, my hips . . . it was all there. And the jacket cinched at the waist, emphasizing my figure. The top had been too much, tight, black, sheer; when I stepped out into the store to look at myself in the three-way mirror, I realized exactly how sheer. The blazer prevented me from being truly indecent. And yet I did feel a little exposed as I stared at my reflection. I remember thinking I looked autocratic, lustful . . . maybe even a little dangerous. A man came out of the stockroom, no more than twenty. I could actually feel his struggle as he pulled his eyes away from me. He had wanted to look longer. He had wanted to examine me with more than his eyes.
And for just a moment I had been tempted to take off the blazer. Would he have been able to turn his eyes away then? How would it have felt to have a stranger see me like that?
Well, now I knew the answer to that question, didn’t I?
I had never worn it outside of that store. I had told Simone I wouldn’t even as she handed the cashier her credit card.
But I would wear it today.
I found a top that was a little more appropriate, a black silk camisole. It was cut high enough to avoid any accusations of promiscuity yet the fabric against my skin had a sumptuous feel.
And then I take that sheer top, the one I know I can never wear, and fold it up in some tissue paper and put it in my briefcase. I don’t know why. I just want it near me.
I stare at the woman in the mirror, her hair loose around her shoulders, commanding, sensual.
“I want to know you,” I say to her.
And in response she smiles.
* * *
AT THE OFFICE the stares are only a little less intense than the looks I had gotten in Vegas. Tom Love raises an eyebrow as I pass him in the hall and flashes me an approving smile.
“Go get ’em,” he murmurs.
The directive excites me. Today I feel ready to take on the world.
But when I get to my office, it’s not the world that’s waiting for me, but a message from Dave’s secretary asking me to call him. Dave always calls me directly. He never has his secretary do it unless there’s something he needs to tell me that he doesn’t think I’ll like.
I don’t sit, but stand in front of my desk as I dial the number. I don’t bother with the middleman, but call his cell directly.
“Kasie, I have a meeting in five minutes—” Dave begins but I cut him off.
“Then tell me what you need to say quickly.”
I don’t mean for the words to sound so harsh but for once I’m not interested in smoothing things over. I see the red flag being waved in the distance and I’m ready for the fight.