Kathryn wearily pulled herself up the steps leading to her door. It was three a.m. and she was exhausted. She leaned her forehead against the door as she inserted her key and, more or less, fell into her living room as the door gave way.
There was a note on the bookcase next to the door, where she quietly placed her keys. It read: Stayed up as long as I could—sorry about tonight. You owe me breakfast. Kathryn smiled. Breakfast and a whole lot more.
An evening that held such promise had quickly turned into a suffocating yoke of guilt and regret. The stage spotlights kept her from seeing Forrester’s arrival, but she sensed the wave of movement in the third tier and knew their night was over. She nodded with a smile in his direction as a sickening wave of anger-induced nausea washed over her. She couldn’t see Jenny either, but she didn’t dare look her way for fear she’d catch a glimpse of her frustration at Forrester’s intrusion. She would be angry. Not just at Forrester, but at her too for promising things she couldn’t deliver. All this drifted through her mind as she finished her song without conscious effort. The applause brought her back to herself, but her nod of appreciation was halfhearted.
She couldn’t let this get to her. Why had this gotten to her? She was a master of adaptation. Regret had no place in her world. Jenny had gotten under her skin. She made her want things. Expect things. Crave things. God, this had to stop. She was Forrester’s for the evening. Jenny would have to wait. Jenny would always have to wait. She hated herself for it, and when she slipped the note she’d written on a napkin into Jenny’s hand, she didn’t look at her. She couldn’t. Jenny’s body language would telegraph bravery, but her eyes would show … what? Contempt? Betrayal? Sadness? Sympathy? Whatever it was, it would break her heart, and she couldn’t be that weak. Ever. Forrester’s doting mistress had a job to do.
She knew Jenny understood, but it had to hurt, no matter how much she tried to hide it or convince herself it was all for the greater good. The worst part was that this wouldn’t be the last time. She had to clear those thoughts from her mind. Why were they there to begin with?
She would dissect that later. She stepped out of her shoes and shed her coat along with her persona. She was Jenny’s again now and wanted nothing more than to fall into her arms and sleep for a week.
She quietly slipped into the kitchen and took a bottle of milk from the refrigerator. She shut the door and leaned against it, putting the cold bottle against her throbbing cheek. It had been a rough night.
The evening started with drinks at the club and then it was off to a typical cocktail party at the home of one of Forrester’s companions. The night continued with more meaningless business discussions, where she played the attentive escort flawlessly. Forrester was the topic of hushed whispers, as his associates marveled at his audacity to flaunt his mistress in public during his divorce. Afterward, they were to meet with some new contacts, which made Forrester jumpy and anxious. Kathryn did her best to calm him, though he continually refused to acknowledge anything was wrong. She’d never met this crowd before, but off to the side, leaning casually on the banister of the grand stairway, was the tango partner who had brazenly swept her into his arms the moment Forester had left the room at a previous gathering. When Forrester sent his goons after him at the conclusion of their dance, she feared for his life, but here he was, alive and well, much to her great relief.
Forrester saw her relieved smile and leaned in, whispering, “I told you I just wanted his name.”
“Thank you, Marc.”
“Perhaps you shall dance again tonight,” he said with a grin.
“Perhaps,” she said cordially, as they walked away. That was all she needed … a lust-struck musician drooling at her backside and a sexually challenged man on her arm egging him on. Her journey toward utter misery was complete—or so she thought.
Forrester made the rounds, trying to be nonchalant when he greeted his new partners in crime. Kathryn feigned ignorance about their true motives and smiled pleasantly as she always did. When the men exhausted their small talk, they excused themselves, one by one, to their private meeting. Kathryn quickly escaped to the balcony before the elusive tango player had any delusions about a chance in hell with her.
Blissfully left in peace, Kathryn stood on the balcony and got lost in her thoughts of Jenny. How disappointed she must be. Forrester’s timing couldn’t have been worse, and she was sure Jenny was as miserable as she was. She would have to do something special to make it up to her. A delicious grin split her lips as she imagined how wonderful her contrition would be.
She took a deep breath and exhaled an exasperated sigh. The cool stone railing felt good under her hands, but not as good as a cool glass of wine, glowing in the candlelight, with Jenny wrapped in her arms. She enjoyed the image for a moment but soon realized it was wholly out of place.
“What are you doing, Hammond?” she mumbled to herself. Thoughts of Jenny Ryan should have been the last thing on her mind. Of more immediate concern was Forrester. What was he up to? Who were these new men?
She should have been devising a way to get into that meeting, not rejoicing in her exclusion by daydreaming about her lover. She shook her head and felt the loss of her pleasant thoughts immediately. She suddenly noticed her aching feet and tired legs, and she hung her head as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other, stretching out her tight calves with a soft groan.
A pair of hands slowly wrapped themselves around her waist, and she rolled her eyes. The tango dancer was not only persistent but forward. She turned with an annoyed smirk.
“Listen—”
“Expecting someone else?” Forrester cooed.
“Sorry, darling. Of course not,” she countered quickly with a tender hand to his cheek. “I didn’t expect you back so soon. Everything all right?”
“I told you everything is fine. My associates understand my position, and they will just have to come to terms with it.” He took her hand and patted it like a small child. “Why do you worry about such things?”
“I do worry, Marc. You know I do.”
She wasn’t going to pretend she didn’t know what his quick return signified. Short meetings always meant he didn’t get what he wanted and, oftentimes, a notice in the obituary column followed in retribution. His standing among his kind had been severely tested after Charles Lawrence’s attempted coup, and the fact that these men were not afraid to defy his wishes showed he hadn’t regained his throne yet.
Forrester wrapped her arm around his. “No worrying tonight. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Finally, Kathryn thought. Progress. Forrester was efficient in his dealings. Perhaps he had found an ally after all. She pushed her shoulders back and held her head high, ready to impress and ready to make up for her lack of focus.
A group of four men watched their approach with great interest, and Kathryn wondered which one of them had sold his soul to the man on her arm. They had almost reached the group when the amorous tango dancer intercepted them wearing an arrogant smile.
Oh, for the love of Pete, Kathryn internally grimaced. Not now.
“Darling,” Forrester began in a sugary tone he reserved for when he wanted to impress, “I don’t think we’ve all been formally introduced. This is Thierry Bouchaule. Thierry,” he said, turning, “as promised, Kathryn Hammond, the most beautiful woman in the room.”
“Indeed.” Bouchaule grinned as he took her hand gently but confidently to his lips. “Enchanté, mademoiselle.”
From the knowing looks on the two men, it didn’t take long to see that there were no allies in the room and that this was no business introduction. It was about pleasure, and it would be anything but hers.
Kathryn found her wrist crushed in Forrester’s grasp as he discreetly manhandled her into an unoccupied room and slammed the door.
“Let go of me!” she protested. “You’re hurting me.”
He unleashed a backhanded slap that caught her full on the left cheek, causing her head to snap violently to the side.
“Shut up!” he said.
She turned back to him, her free hand holding her stinging face. “You don’t pay me enough for that,” she said, barely containing her reflex to ball up her fist and hit him back.
His eyes narrowed and he tilted his head, slightly confused. Kathryn knew the comment had been a mistake. Forrester loosened his grasp and she yanked her arm away.
“So that’s the way it is,” he drew out slowly, as though the nature of their relationship had just become clear to him.
She had to think quickly to save her assignment and eight months of work. She swallowed her pride and her anger.
“I’m sorry I said that, Marcus,” she said quietly, feigning humility.
In hindsight, she was sorry for a lot of things. When he suggested she sleep with Bouchaule while he watched, she could have said anything other than I’m flattered, but no, thank you. Bouchaule, to his credit, took it in stride. In fact, he seemed pleased, but surprised, by the suggestion in the first place. He was a gentleman about it at least, turning Forrester’s demand into a request by deferring to the affected party. If it pleases the lady, he had said, bowing slightly.
It definitely did not please the lady, but that shouldn’t have made a difference. She had rationalized her decision in her head and thought she was appropriately graceful in her refusal, but her rejection couldn’t have been a bigger insult to Forrester, which he made abundantly clear as soon as the tango dancer was out of sight. Now she had to grovel, not only to save the evening, but also to save her assignment.
“Treat me like a whore and I can’t help but feel like one,” she went on in her defense. “I don’t appreciate being handed over like this morning’s newspaper—for his pleasure, or yours.” She rubbed her wrist and looked up, wounded. “I thought I meant more to you than that.”
His eyes narrowed again, and she could see him trying to decide whether he would forgive her. She added some tears to help him decide and quickly wiped them away to appear brave. He tugged at the collar of his shirt in annoyance and seemed to disregard any sympathy she may have won.
“You made me look like a fool out there,” he said angrily. “We had a deal. You do what I say, when I say.”
He was stabbing the air with an accusing finger, and Kathryn was on the lookout for another slap—she hadn’t yet decided whether to let him get away with it again.
“There is nothing I asked you to do that you haven’t done for me before,” he went on as a justification of his request.
“What we do in our home is private,” she said, winging it. “I’m glad someone here can tell the difference.”
He raised his chin at her sarcasm—a warning.
“Think about it,” she continued, hoping her rationalization would make as much sense to him as it did to her at the time. “Our deal was that I make you look good. You want to impress a man? Possess something he cannot have. I made your stock rise out there. Any man can get a whore, Marcus. Now he thinks I’m devoted to you—” She paused, playing the moment perfectly. “Which I am.”
He had no comment.
She exhaled her false frustration and went on the offensive. “My God, what were you thinking? Do you want them to think I’m a whore?” She pretended a new thought had just dawned on her. “Is that what you think? After all this time, is that all I am to you?” He seemed shocked by the suggestion, and she knew she’d struck a nerve. “I don’t need your money or your things, Marc. I can get that anywhere, from anyone.”
What started as an angry accusation turned into an emotional declaration of devotion. She allowed her voice to falter, to really sell it. “I only want you, but I can’t have that, so I do the best I can. I’m sorry that’s not good enough for you.” She turned to hide her tears, pretending she was ashamed of them.
He chewed on her words, and if her performance had any impact at all, it didn’t last for long.
“I’ve still got a wife, Kathryn,” he finally said sternly. “I don’t need your dramatics. Go make yourself a drink. And for God’s sake, stop crying.” He straightened a cufflink and then his tie. “Clean yourself up. I’ll expect you by my side shortly.” With that, he left the room.
She closed her eyes with the slamming door and rubbed her stinging cheek.
“Shit.”
Kathryn went to the small bar away from the milling guests and was annoyed to find no ice. She went to the empty kitchen, and after retrieving the metal ice tray from the freezer, slammed it down on the counter, forgoing the release lever. She was angry at Forrester for hitting her, but a good share of the anger was directed squarely at herself. It was unthinkable, but she let her personal life interfere with business. She should have said yes. She would have said yes, if not for—
“Hello, Disaster,” Bouchaule said with a smile from the doorway, hands in his pockets.
Kathryn returned the smile as a matter of course, acknowledging the name he called her when they first met, and was glad the slapped side of her face was toward the door. “Hello, Thierry. I was just—” She looked up into the cabinets and grabbed a glass. “There was no ice at the bar.” She filled the glass with ice, hoping to dissuade him from ambling over.
He was by her side before she knew it and stilled her hands. “Are you really that devoted to him, or are you just afraid?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said coyly, still hiding her face.
Bouchaule let go of her hands and dumped the glass of ice into a dishtowel, carefully folding it into a neat bundle. He turned her head and placed the wrapped cubes gently to her cheek.
“This will help with the swelling.”
She looked into his sympathetic eyes and relieved him of the cold compress by replacing his hand with her own. “Thank you.”
He smiled weakly. “I apologize.”
“For?”
“The arrangement was not my idea.”
She stared at him for a moment, wondering if he really thought that made a difference. “You went along with it.”
He chuckled sheepishly and blushed. “If you have not noticed, you are a very beautiful woman, and I am only a man.”
Kathryn looked him up and down but remained silent. Humility became him.
He moved closer. “I ask you again. Are you really that devoted to him, or are you just afraid?”
He was direct, she’d give him that. “I—”
“And you need not lie to me. I can see the truth in your eyes.”
She stopped mid lie and marveled at the man’s charisma. Between his physical beauty and suave demeanor, he could have anyone he wanted. She supposed they were a lot alike in that respect. Still, she didn’t know him. To her, he was just a tango dancing musician with good taste in women—caution, as always, was still in play.
“He’s under a lot of pressure,” she said.
“No man should treat you that way.” He moved in closer and gently stroked the good side of her face with the back of his hand. “I would never treat you that way.”
She moved away. “I think I’ve had enough of men for this evening,” she replied. “But, thank you.”
He nodded in understanding. “Let me give you my card.” He held it out.
Kathryn turned her cheek and dropped the icepack to the counter to remind him of who she had to deal with and what he was capable of.
“You can’t be serious.”
Bouchaule insisted she take his card.
“I am very discreet.”
She glanced at his offered card and then stood motionless—Thierry Bouchaule, MD, PhD—he was a doctor. Was he one of Forrester’s new connections? Was he somehow connected to Daniel Ryan’s medical research? She wasn’t sure, but she wasn’t going to dismiss it.
She smiled as she plucked the card from his hand. “You’re a pretty good dancer for a doctor.”
“I like to think I am a pretty good doctor for a dancer.”
They both grinned. He took her hand holding the icepack and placed it back on her cheek.
“Take care of that.” He ran his hand down her arm before breaking contact. “I look forward to seeing you soon.”
He left her standing alone in the kitchen with a business card pinched dumbly between her fingers.