Page 96 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

“No,” he says. “I don’t care what anybody knows about anything. Fucking my assistant with impunity included.”

“Not to mention your doorman. They all recognize me, you know?”

“I do, and you’re a favorite.”

I pull my head back to look at him without lowering my arms. “Of whose?”

He grins softly. “You don’t see yourself at all, do you?”

“Blonde hair, blue eyes, a buck seventy. What’s to see?”

“Radiance.”

I shake my head slowly, keeping his eye contact now that I’ve got it back. “I mean, I’ll take it.”

He gives me a peck on the mouth. “Wear something sexy for me.”

I smile, leaning in to press my nose to his. “I’ll see what I can come up with.”

28

GIBSON

Marianne is waiting for me in clothes that would normally set my imagination on fire—a lacy bralette, satin short shorts, and an open silk robe all in bridal white—but my mind is consumed with Christian in black.

“There you are! Your meeting with Graham was over hours ago.”

“How do you know that?” I ask, peeling off my jacket and laying it over my arm. She rises from the sitting room sofa, swinging her hips as she approaches. Her hair is down, and her lips are glossy.

“Avery,” she says. “The investigator is still following him. Well? What was your sense of things?”

She’s close enough for me to smell her soft scent. She’s never worn perfume, but she’s never needed to. Her sublimely scented bath products are very effective. “I sensed he realized he was fucked.”

She smiles, but I can’t bring myself to share her glee.

“I won’t go any further with this, Marianne,” I say in a tone I hope shows command of the situation.

“Of course not,” she says, brushing a casual hand down my arm. “Just the usual follow up. Making sure he’s doing what he’s supposed to be doing.”

“Are you not able to manage that on your own?”

She frowns, but the muscles in her forehead barely move. “What’s wrong, love?”

I should be able to speak freely with her—to share my feelings—but today, I get the sense they might be used against me. Still, old habits. “I understand he hurt Avery—badly. And I don’t mind that you want to help her get a good settlement in the divorce. But in terms of his politics—the ends don’t justify the means. I don’t want to use that video. I don’t want you to, either. It’s beyond appalling that we even have it.”

“How is this any different than the Drexel deal?” she asks.

It takes me a moment to remember what she’s referring to and another to connect the dots. Two years ago, I’d used my knowledge of Marius Drexel’s affair with a Broadway ingenue, which he’d carried on in my club, in order to “negotiate” a better deal on a highly coveted property downtown. I’d wanted it, mentioned to my wife what I thought the potential for it was, and she’d immediately suggested there was no need to barter when I held all the cards.

“That was business. This is personal. Extremely personal.” Andpolitical,which takes it up another notch on my scale of immorality.

“It sounds like you’re saying when it’s somethingyouwant, there are no rules, but when it’s somethingIwant?—”

I hold up my hand to stop her. “Don’t you dare.”

She stares at me with wide eyes like my hand gesture is some sort of precursor to an assault.

It incenses me. “I bend over backwards for you every day, and you know it. Where’smyreward for a job well done?”

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