Page 34 of So Close

Rogelio used to try to cajole me into fucking on my desk – as if I’d ever give him that power – saying it was more convenient with the bathroom right there. He’ll need to erase the CCTV footage of his trek back and forth, but that’s nothing for him. For all his flaws, he’s sharply intelligent and a natural predator. He not only manages the security personnel and the system that protects Baharan from espionage, he also helped build the system and maintains its cutting edge. Like Amy, he once owned his company. Now he works for Baharan, although I suspect he does some outside work just for the hell of it. He certainly doesn’t need the money with what we pay him.

I wait until the door shuts behind him, then I pull out the writing-board drawer of his desk to find his login code. He changes it so often he can’t remember it anymore and writes it down on a Post-it. I copy the code onto my thigh with a pen, then dress hurriedly. I’m wet between my legs, but I can live with it.

Darius has been working long hours with Kane out of the office. He’s not picking up slack because Kane isn’t leaving any. My eldest is steering the ship from home, taking all his meetings virtually or in person in his home office when necessary. So, Darius is up to something else, and I need to know about it. Since every keystroke and phone call made on Baharan equipment is recorded, I just need Rogelio’s password to see what my middle son has been doing over the past few weeks. I could use my own login, but then there would be a trail. Can’t have that.

When Rogelio returns, he’s still damp all over and gloriously naked. I eye him, tempted, and he stirs under my perusal.

“The wife’s waiting,” he says. “We’d have to make it quick.”

Although the thought of a wife cooling her heels while I enjoy her husband arouses me, the mention of haste takes that small pleasure away. Plus, his password on my thigh would be impossible to explain.

“Another time,” I say, patting his cheek like I would a small child. “I have to get home, too.”

I’ll have more fun going through the security logs. A shower, glass of wine, my personal laptop … An evening well spent.

I head to my office to retrieve my purse and leave Rogelio to erase any evidence of our tryst.

23

LILY

Knowingyou always shower when you wake and before you sleep, I sneak into your bedroom once I hear the water turn on. I take my time approaching your bed, my gaze roaming and cataloging. Even in your private space, there is none of your personal style. I sigh.

Your room couldn’t be more sterile. Only Lily’s photo adds color.

I stare at the massive canvas. It’s so large it must have been stretched onto the frame on-site.

Do you resent me for stepping in between you and her, the idealized Lily you’ve worshipped for years longer than you were together? Why did you choose this image? I think I know. The angle of her wrist presents the scorpion tattoo at her pulse to the camera. Does the sight of it, your astrological sign, offer you some comfort or deepen your torment?

I glance through the open bathroom door and note the lack of steam. I can see the entire length of your magnificent body through the glass shower surround. A warm rush of desire heats my blood. The powerful muscles of your shoulders and arms flex as you scrub your fingers through your hair. Trails of suds slither along the sculpted lines of your back, gliding over the firm swells of your buttocks before running down strong thighs and calves to circle the drain at your feet.

I hungrily catalog the differences between you and the younger version of you whose body I coveted so fiercely. You were devastating even then. I wonder if I can withstand your increased power and elegance or if I’d simply burn into ashes in your arms.

You make a noise I recognize as audible chill from the cold water.

And here I am, on fire for you. You’re torturing us both.

Witte’s already turned down your bed, and I slip naked into it. Rolling and twisting, I rub the scents of my lotion and perfume all over your sheets and pillow. You’ve come to my room every evening, but I can’t take the chance that you’ll resist tonight. I also hope to hurry you along. It’s nearly midnight. After the past few weeks, you’d think a handful of hours longer wouldn’t make a difference, but after you reacted to my touch with such longing, I can wait no more.

I leave the way I came, through your closet, and into the sitting room. I think it’s possibly my favorite space in the house. It’s a hidden jewel box, accessible only from your closet and mine, nestled between the two with its own lovely view of the city. There is a fireplace opposite the window, set flush within a wall covered in foxed mirror tiles. Above the firebox hangs a framed mirror that is actually a television. The result is an entire wall adorned only by an antiqued reflection of New York that appears perpetually stormy.

The seating area is dominated by an oversized U-shaped sectional in a luxurious sapphire velvet. Not only is it beautiful, it’s also remarkably comfortable, suitable for curling up with a book, stretching out for a nap or a quickie, or sprawling while watching a film. A tufted square ottoman of the same material sits in the center, with a large, mirrored tray atop it filled with recent periodicals, notepads featuring our monograms, a cut-crystal pen holder and spheres of quartz sitting atop brass bases. If I turned it on, a sputnik chandelier would throw shards of light onto the ceiling and walls.

On either side of your closet door and mine, mirrored console tables squat heavily, adorned with table lamps that are counterparts to the chandelier. Framed mirrors matching the television hang from sapphire ribbons and bows. I pause before the one nearest your closet, examining my reflection.

In the forgiving glow of moonlight, I can pass for the woman you desire. Too thin, yes, along with a sharpening of the lines around my lips. The smoky eye shadow hides the deeper set of the eyes, but nothing can diminish the worldliness of my gaze. Long strands of dark hair curl along the underside of my breasts.

I turn away, collecting the sheer black peignoir I left draped on the arm of the sofa. Slipping it on, I tie the sash and adjust the weight of the ostrich feathers that froth from my knees to the hem. Then I arrange my hair, draping it around my shoulders and fluffing the length that falls to my hips.

My heart hammers steadily against my rib cage. What will I do if you reject me? How will I bear it?

Settling onto the sofa’s edge, I fidget with the sash of my robe. Perhaps I’m playing my only hand too soon. In a matter of hours, we’ll share a car, the walk to and from our “outing” with my doctors and the ride home. That could be a start, an opening to conversation, a suggestion that we might enjoy lunch out in the city. If I could just open the door, I could court, charm and seduce you. At least I could try.

But it’s also possible that you’re just waiting for me to have a clean bill of health. Perhaps your conscience won’t allow you to strain an infirm woman with discussions of separation and divorce. Maybe that’s why you’re accompanying me, to hear firsthand that it’s safe to end this farce of a marriage. If so, these hours are all I have before you cast me adrift, and I can’t squander them.

I don’t know how long I wait. Time slows to a trickle. My skin chills, and I stare at the fireplace, wanting to turn it on but reluctant to banish the darkness that shelters me.

Finally, the door to your closet is yanked ajar, and you enter the sitting room like a firestorm, enraged. Your feverishly bright gaze is locked on the opening to my closet, and your long legs eat up the distance in furious strides.

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