Page 3 of Destined To Fall

“I must have you.”

Easiest in I’d ever had, but I worked it for all I was worth. Turning my head to meet his golden-brown gaze, my body slowly followed suit as I crossed my leg, parting the side slit further. My emerald silk gown moved across my skin like butter, revealing a sizable amount of skin. Antony’s eyes zeroed in on my bare thigh, as intended, and I closed the deal with four of my own magical little words no man with lust blazing in his eyes and more money than sense could resist.

“You couldn’t afford me.”

It was really that simple. The rest, an affluent history. Now, every time Antony’s in Boston, which is more and more frequently since I moved back six or so months ago, for whatever business he’s into—I don’t ask, and he doesn’t tell—he insists I block out a week for him and him alone. The evenings are always his, but I’m allowed a little more liberty during the day, unless required for show-pony duties. I’m happy to comply, mostly.

Continuing to dance to my own drunk beat, I make my way through my opulent foyer, the silence that always greets me a little louder than normal tonight, but I ignore it, as usual. My head throbs in time with my heavy footfalls as I enter the kitchen in search of my standard AAPP (Attempted Alcohol Poisoning Prevention).

I’m sure there’s some rule about hangovers. Don’t they only kill you once you pass out and then regain consciousness? Apparently not, because somehow at three a.m., I’m still roaring drunk and dying at the same time.

Lucky me.

The blinking red light on my answering machine catches my eye as I open my all-but-empty fridge, squinting painfully against the fluorescent light trying to blind me. I pull out a bottle of H20 from the fridge with one hand and take the mini drugstore worth of pills off the top of it with the other,gentlyclosing the door with my hip.Progress.

Not-so-elegantly, I sprawl across my countertop and jab the play button with the water bottle. On the rare occasion I get a message, usually it’s emails.I save this wonderful task for Laura, but I’m too inebriated to remember the reason why.

“You. Have. One. New. Message.”

I squint at the disjointed, robotic voice as it comes through the speakerphone.

“Received. On the. Four—teenth. Of. June. At. Twelve, oh, Three. A.M.” Where was I at twelve?Oh…yeah.

“Hi, this is Maxwell Thatcher.”Maxwell?“We met tonight, and you slipped me your, ah, business card. You told me you were just what I needed?”

Ooooh. The tightly wound guy who couldn’t take his eyes off me. He was appealing in that older, distinguished way, with thick, perfectly kept salt-and-pepper hair. There was no mistaking that he needed to let go and live a little. So rigid and tense, so…something. I couldn’t put my finger on it. While Antony was preoccupied, I slid him a card—not my usual MO, but what the hell, bourbon makes me everyone’s friend.

“You might be right. I’d like to set up a meeting at my office for tomorrow, if possible. I’d like to discuss a few things.” His office? He sounds too business…too out of his element. It makes me smile. I love fresh meat.“You can call my secretary on—”Shit. Pen.

I slide off the counter, my nylon-covered feet slipping on the polished concrete floor, and pull out all the kitchen drawers, completely missing the phone number being rattled off.Well, fuck.

Clearly, I’m too inebriated to function tonight—or is it this morning now? Whichever it is, I need a shower and meds. I swallow two ibuprofen, chasing them down with half the bottle of water, and stumble my way to my bedroom. I collapse face-first on the king-size bed and moan into the thick, plush comforter.So soft and fluffy…

I startle awake to a loud screeching noise piercing my eardrums, vaguely aware that I must have dozed off at some point. I blink rapidly, the sun pouring through my open blinds, and roll over to look at the digital display. Squinting, I manage to focus enough to read 9:06 a.m. on the clock and shuffle up the bed to smash it.

The screeching continues, and it dawns on me that it’s not an alarm but the landline.Fucksticks.

I fall out of bed, staggering to my feet as I slip and slide my way to the kitchen, pulling my nylons off as I go. I pick up the phone just as the answering machine takes the call.

“Hello—”

“Hi, you’ve dialed Vivienne—”

“Ah, shit.”

“—I’m currentlytied upat the moment—” I hammer at the buttons until my pre-recorded message stops.

“Sorry about that.”Damn it, it’s the business phone.“How can I be of service?”Argh.And that is why I don’t answer the damn thing.

“Ah…not a problem. Is this Miss…Vivienne?” The timid woman’s voice comes through the other end.

“Yes?”

“This is Mr. Thatcher’s secretary.”

“Thatcher?”…Thatcher…Oh!

“From Maximum—.”

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