CHAPTER 7.
ROOM AFTER ROOM, office after office, Mr. Dade leads my team through the winding corridors of his life. And it"s clear that this really is his life. Evidence of that is in the way he describes his products with a boyish giddiness that I haven"t seen before. It"s evident in the way he caresses the plans given to him by the engineers he introduces to us. Not as intimate as the caresses he shared with me earlier but loving nonetheless. I hear it in his easy laughter as we chat with his marketing team over a lunch meeting in the conference room. He knows the names of every employee and knows exactly how they fit into his operation. He recites their duties to us with the enthusiasm of a man reciting the stats of his favorite football players. My staff takes copious notes as do I. But even as my pen glides over my notepad my eyes continue to flicker up to him. Everything about him fascinates me. Even the way he moves as he leads us to our meeting with his other top executives.
"Keep in mind that this place is more than just a company to Robert and me," his VP says good-naturedly as he shakes my hand, then Asha"s, then Taci"s, and so on. Mr. Dade stands a step behind him, owning the room without saying a word. "Particularly for Robert," the man continues. "His house? That"s Robert"s home away from home. But this is where he really lives. This is his true home."
The statement takes me off guard. My career has always been a huge part of my ident.i.ty. I"m driven by success, motivated by failure . . . but the company that employs me . . . was there ever a time when that place felt like home?
Mr. Dade laughs softly and shakes his head. "You"re not much better, Will. If I"m here for seventy hours of a week, you"re here for sixty-eight. It"s why your wife hates me so much."
Their banter is good-natured and kind. More than that, it"s brotherly. Tom Love, Nina, Dameon, were any of them family?
I watch as my team flashes plastic smiles and nods encouragingly at this man, Will, who is now rattling on about projections and corporate ambitions. I don"t know these people. Yes, I know their strategies, their work ethic, their level of intelligence, but I don"t know what makes them truly unique. I don"t know how long that wedding ring has been on Taci"s finger or who put it there. I don"t know why there"s just a tan line where Dameon"s band used to be. I don"t know what pictures are inside that Tiffany"s locket which always hangs around Nina"s neck.
And they don"t know me. If they did, they"d spend more time wondering about why my hair is down.
The only one of them I"ve ever spent any time wondering about is Asha. She has a seductively dark energy, darker than her brown Indian eyes or thick black hair. Her dress is tighter than anything I would ever wear to the office but her conservative blue blazer makes it acceptable. Still, you have to wonder what happens when she leaves the office and takes off the blazer. Does she live another life?
I wonder, but if I"m right, it would be hypocritical for me to fault her for it.
Mr. Dade is looking at me now. I feel it without having to return his gaze. The man can slip inside of my head as easily as he slides inside of my body. He looks away, toward the VP"s desk, not so unlike the desk I had been on just over an hour ago-eager, wet, his.
I cross my arms over my chest self-consciously. I"m in a room full of strangers; what would these strangers think of me if they knew? What would they think if they saw? Would they look at me the way Sonya looked at me?
Images dance inside my mind, too quick for me to catch or suppress. I see myself on that desk, with a room full of my coworkers. I imagine them watching as he undresses me; I see their eyes follow the path of my silk blouse as it floats to the floor, the first item in a continued cascade of fabric until I"m clothed in nothing but the cool air and the warmth of Robert Dade"s touch. I hear the soft murmurs of our audience as Robert explores my body with his, as he opens me up with his hands, his mouth. . . . I sense them moving closer as I succ.u.mb to every kiss, every stroke and caress. And they watch as Robert growls his desire and enters me. Beams of pleasure shoot through my body, then his; we rock with the impact as the room sighs and gasps. I"m completely exposed to all of them. And in that moment they understand me. All of me. Not just the ambitious businesswoman who advises the world"s CEOs, not just the polite lady who knows which fork to use while dining at the city"s five-star restaurants. Now they know that the same woman who can lead them to power and success, the same woman who can conquer every professional challenge, can unleash a delectable chaos when she is touched just the right way by just the right man. . . .
I shake myself out of it, stunned by the outrageousness of my fantasy and even more unnerved by the idea that the man who is now standing across the room from me could possibly be the right man. I glance over at him and I see that he"s still looking at the desk. His eyes dart back and forth as if he"s in REM sleep with open lids. He, too, is seeing things on that desk that aren"t there.
That wasn"t just my fantasy. Without sharing so much as a gesture of communication, we had shared the same sort of vision.
This man who I had met less than a week ago: I know him better than Nina, Asha, Dameon, or Taci. I know what he wants.
He wants me.
He sighs quietly. I"m the only one who notices the slight rise and fall of his chest. He walks across the room, idly, seemingly without purpose. But I know better. He crosses in front of me. No more than a foot separates us in that fleeting moment of pa.s.sing as he moves to the window. It"s the tiniest signal, a little gesture to let me know that he wants to be near me. What surprises me is that what I see in his face is more than desire; it"s frustration, determination . . . maybe even confusion that matches my own. Will, still talking, still answering the questions of the team, glances in Robert"s direction as he pa.s.sively stares out the window. The deep lines that are etched across Will"s forehead deepen further. This isn"t Robert"s normal behavior. He"s reacting to some invisible element that Will can clearly sense but not feel.
Ha, you just thought of him as "Robert" rather than "Mr. Dade." My little devil relishes in my increasing familiarity with this man who has unleashed her. My angel just quietly shakes her head and thinks of Dave, the man who buys me roses and rubies.
"So your main focus is optimal positioning before your initial public offering?" This from Asha. She"s looking at the VP, but I sense that she"s particularly tuned in to Robert.
"Timing is everything," Robert says quietly. He turns away from the window and smiles at Asha but the smile has a hint of melancholy. "We need to project strength, and the vulnerabilities need to be buried so deep, no one will be able to dig them up for years. We can"t have the big investors perceiving us one way and the smaller ones another. That would only lead to conspiracy theories about insider trading and unethical practices. We must be universally seen as a giant."
"Every company has their weaknesses," Asha counters. "If you seem too good to be true, investors won"t believe in you."
"They will believe because they want us to live up to the myths they"ve already created for us," Robert explains. "Our job is only to help them see what they want to see and be who they want us to be."
I stare down at the hard, gleaming wood floor beneath my Italian heels. Yes, I know Robert Dade better than anyone else in this room. I understand him because, at least on some level, I understand myself.
CHAPTER 8.
HE"S AN INTERESTING MAN," Asha says as we walk to our cars. The rest of the team has parked in Maned Wolf"s parking facility but I parked a few blocks away on the street. I didn"t want anyone noting how early I had arrived. Asha apparently parked near me for reasons I can only guess at.
"He was so enthusiastic for the first half of the tour," she continues, "and then . . . something happened in that office."
The wind is picking up, lifting my hair, chilling my neck. "I didn"t notice," I say. My car"s in sight now. I reach for my keys.
"You did," Asha says, "and now you"re denying it. I wonder why?"
I turn my profile to the wind so I can look at her. I hadn"t expected her brazenness and I speculate on whether or not a confrontation is brewing. But she doesn"t say any more until we reach my car and even then she only adds a cheerful good-bye as she continues her walk to her own vehicle.
Asha started at our firm only weeks before I arrived. All these years I had quietly admired her mystery. Only now does it occur to me that she might be dangerous.
I get in my car, grip the wheel, and breathe, waiting for my thoughts to catch up to my actions. Looking up at my reflection in the rearview mirror I touch the freckle that I forgot to cover up this morning. When did I become so careless? When did I become one of the lost?
But that"s an easy question to answer. I got lost at the Venetian in Vegas.
If I want to find my way, I have to retrace my steps. Find that path I strayed from, rediscover the joy of being loyal to one man. If I can mentally retrace my steps, I can leave this insane detour behind.
At eight I"m meeting Dave for dinner, but that"s well over three hours away.
I pick up my phone and call Simone.
WHEN I GET to Simone"s condo, it"s just short of five o"clock. She waves me in. On her beige couch are leopard-print throw pillows; on the walls, framed black-and-white photographs of women and men dancing, the sensuality of their movement caught in a split-second pose.
"Can I get you something to drink?" she asks. "Tea? Sparkling water?"
"Maybe a c.o.c.ktail?"
She pauses a moment and looks out the window at the smoggy blue sky. She knows I rarely drink before sunset. It"s a rule my mother taught me when I was young. "Drinking is for the moon," she would say as she poured her wine. "Darkness hides our smaller sins. But the sun isn"t so forgiving. Light requires the innocence of sobriety."
But how innocent had I been when I drank water in Mr. Dade"s waiting room, fixing the b.u.t.tons on my s.h.i.+rt? How many sins have I already committed in the brightness of day? The rules are changing and I need a c.o.c.ktail to deal.
Simone disappears into the kitchen and returns with two gla.s.ses, one for her, one for me. The clear liquid does have the look of chast.i.ty but the bite of something much better. I take several sips and lower myself onto her sofa. She places herself on the armrest by my side.
"You always tell me your secrets," I say. One of those leopard throw pillows presses against my back.
"And you never tell me any of yours," she replies, lightly.
It"s not true. I told Simone about my sister once. I told her about her blinding brilliance and her energy that was as powerful as it was frightening. But Simone didn"t know those confessions were secrets. For her a secret was something no one knew, not something everyone was trying to forget.
"I never had any secrets before," I say, using her definition.
"Before." She says the word carefully, tasting its meaning. She curls a lock of her golden hair around her index finger like a ring.
"You know, secrets and mysteries, they have . . . weight. I"ve enjoyed traveling light."
"What kind of weight are you carrying, Kasie?"
When I don"t answer, she changes tact. "When did you start having secrets?"
"In Vegas," I whisper.
"I knew it!" Simone leans forward and places her gla.s.s on the coffee table with a triumphant thump. "You were different when you came back to the room-"
"I told you, I had a drink with a man in the bar with gla.s.s walls."
Simone swats aside my words like irksome flies. "There was more." She gets up as if standing over me will force out my story a little faster. "When I left you at the blackjack table you were still that woman without secrets. And now?" She shrugs.
"Now I"m something different." I turn my focus inward, gathering up the courage to continue. "I betrayed him."
"Dave?"
"Yes Dave. He"s the only man I have the power to betray."
Simone turns out her left leg, s.h.i.+fting her weight forward to her toes. She looks like the immobile dancers on her wall. "It was more than a kiss?"
"Yes, more than a kiss."
A slow smile forms on her lips. "You slept with a stranger."
I look away.
"You did it! For just one night you were young!"
"No, I was irresponsible."
She arches a blond eyebrow. "There"s a difference?"
I make a small gesture of concession to her point. "The thing is, he"s not a stranger anymore."
And now both her eyebrows reach for new heights. "You"re having an affair?"
I wince, disliking the word. It"s common and ugly.
And it fits perfectly with my actions of the last week.
"He hired me to consult for his company. Even when I"m not talking to him he"-I glance up at the photographs-"he dances around in my head. I"ve been doing things I never thought I would do. I think things I never thought I would think. I don"t know who I am anymore."
"That"s easy," Simone says, sitting by my side and slipping my two hands between hers. "You"re a woman with secrets"-she studies my eyes, my lips, my hair-"and you wear them beautifully."
I pull away. "It"s just my hair, I"m wearing it down."
"No, it"s the secrets, giving you color, brightening your eyes . . . you look more . . . human somehow."
"I didn"t look human before?"
"Always beautiful, but a bit statuesque . . . Do you remember the statues we saw during our college trip to Florence? They were fantastic . . . but as grand as he is, I can"t imagine making love to Michelangelo"s David. Too hard, too cold, too . . . perfect."
I laugh into my gla.s.s. "I have never been perfect."
"But everyone thinks of you that way. It earns you admiration . . . now you"re inner human is showing and it sounds as if it"s earning you something . . . warmer."
"I slept with him today."
"At his place or yours?"
"In his office . . . on his desk." I"m surprised that the admission makes me grin.
"Shut. Up."
I look up at her and for the briefest of moments I bask in her envy, allow myself to indulge in the gratification that comes from my newfound audacity.
"You made love on his desk," she repeats. "It sounds like a fantasy."
I shake my head. "That"s the thing, I did it and then I fantasized about it afterward."
"But it was better than a fantasy," Simone corrects. "It"s a memory now, and it"s yours to keep."
"No." I shake my head. "In my fantasy I . . . added things." I swallow the rest of the burning liquid and tell her my imaginings . . . the image of him entering me while my team looks on. The words are hard to get out but I need to tell someone whose mind might be unconventional enough to explain the s.h.i.+ft in mine.
"I imagined myself having s.e.x in front of the people I work with!" I finally exclaim. "It"s a little extreme, don"t you think?"
Simone stares at me for a moment and leans back against the opposite end of the couch. She stretches her long legs toward me so she now has the repose of a Roman who might be fed grapes by beautiful slaves.
"Remember when I used to date Jax?"
I nod. Jax flies into my head with his wavy dark hair and impertinent brown eyes.
"While I was with him I developed this fantasy. . . ."
" "Developed a fantasy," " I repeat. The term sounds so purposeful, as if she spent her nights laying out a structure for her future daydreams.
"I still indulge it from time to time. I"m laying out on his deck on one of his lawn chairs, flat on my stomach wearing nothing but my bikini bottoms. I don"t hear the knock on the door, or the footsteps of his friends." Her voice is slowing, lowering, changing texture. "He leads them out to the deck. . . . I try to get up with some bit of modesty, my arm covers my bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s as I walk to them, shake their hands. I lead them to the living room and they all take a seat. Jax asks me to get each one of them a beer from that little bar area of his. I lean down and take the beer out of the mini fridge, try to open it without revealing too much, but every once in a while they get a glimpse. I"m pouring an ice cold beer in a gla.s.s for each one of them and now I serve them . . . wearing almost nothing."
"And then?"
"Jax asks me to sit next to him. He doesn"t want me to get more clothes. He wants me to be there with him right now. And so I oblige. He"s already turned the television on; it"s the Lakers as it always is with him. . . ."
I can see by the glazed look of her eyes that she"s not with me anymore. She"s by Jax"s side . . . wearing almost nothing.