Deceptive Innocence Page 7

  The whole thing is nerve-racking, illicit, intense, agonizing . . .

  . . . exquisite.

  I close my eyes as I feel my body opening up to him, and when he has finally filled me completely, when I have all of him, I gasp.

  My clit is right up against his pelvic bone, and even the slightest movement ignites me.

  But Lander pulls me up again, away from the source of my pleasure. Again I fight him, more desperately this time, craving fulfillment, but again he keeps things measured, slow.

  I whimper, my body writhing in his grip. And I pull hard on his lapels as again I feel his body against my clit and moan as he slowly grinds against me, making me quiver.

  It’s not a big movement. It’s small, almost delicate . . . and it’s going to make me come in less than a minute . . .

  But again he denies me. My eyes fly open and silently plead with him.

  “Ah, there you are, looking at me now, like you’re supposed to,” he says. “Now I can let you come.”

  And with surprising strength he presses me back down onto him and I cry out as he moves against me, pulling me into him, bringing the sensation to a point where control is impossible for me.

  “Will you do something for me, Bell?” he asks.

  “Yes!” Although I barely hear the question, barely care what he’s asking.

  “Will you let yourself truly be seen?”

  My heart speeds up to a dizzying pace. I know what he’s asking.

  And as I groan again I know I’m saying yes.

  My eyes are on Lander, so I can’t see the partition but I can hear it lowering. I can feel the car slow even more.

  My eyes are on Lander as he thrusts inside me, harder each time, rubbing against my clit . . . making me come, all while the driver watches me. My body shakes with the impact and I cry out Lander’s name.

  The car speeds up again and in an instant I’ve been flipped over so now I’m on my back. Lander throws off his jacket, adding it to the pile of clothes on the floor. He kneels in front of me on the seat, pushes my knees up to my breasts. Almost self-consciously I squeeze my legs together, crossing them at the ankle.

  It only makes him smile.

  He pulls my hips into his angled lap, my feet now pressing against his chest, feeling the strength of him, measuring his speeding heartbeat as he pushes inside again. The fit is so tight now, with my legs crossed, the angle so perfect, each thrust brings me closer to another explosion . . .

  . . . and I can see he’s close too. His fingers dig into my thighs, his eyes holding me as surely as his hands.

  This time when I cry out, it’s not a word. It’s more abstract. It’s the sound of triumph. And his voice mingles with mine as he comes as well, completing the victory.

  But to whom does the victory belong?

  The question flickers through my mind, too weak and insubstantial for me to ponder.

  My eyes are still on his, his on mine. He reaches out . . .

  . . . and closes the partition.

  chapter eight

  Only forty minutes have passed since we put our clothes back on, since Lander tried to convince me to go straight to some chic little Upper East Side restaurant. But I had to put him off, if only for a few hours. After what happened, I needed a little time to get my head straight. So after confirming that his brother and his wife were already out for the evening, and that Lander would have to wait until Sunday to see them, I suggested we meet for a late dinner, nine o’clock, in the West Village. I told him I had some errands I needed to do in the area and had him drop me off in front of a Duane Reade. I went in and took my time selecting a few Clif Bars for purchase, reading over the ingredient lists as if I was expecting to find something even faintly interesting there. When I stepped back outside I made sure his limo was nowhere in sight before heading for the subway.

  Now as I sit on the train, staring straight ahead but seeing nothing, I wonder . . . What the hell possessed me?

  I run my hand over my skirt, secretly thanking the gods for synthetic fabrics that don’t wrinkle. I don’t want to advertise my . . . my activity level during the latter portion of the day.

  And yet it’s not exactly a secret, is it? The limo driver saw me. He saw me come. And that wasn’t some random cabbie I’ll never see again. That was Lander’s driver. Now every time that man opens the door for me, he’ll picture me naked, on Lander’s lap, in the throes of the most powerful orgasm of my life . . .

  . . . and he’ll be opening the door for me quite a lot, because I’m nowhere near done with Lander.

  The subway reaches my stop and I hurry off, hoping that no one around will notice the pink of my cheeks or stop to imagine what it could mean.

  Of course, the very thought is ridiculous. This is Harlem. And it’s not a very nice part of Harlem at that. People here have other things to worry about.

  But still, it’s hard not to be self-conscious as I walk through the subway station, deep underground. The limo sex was simply not part of the plan. Granted, I had initiated things as a means of distracting him from his line of questioning, but it had turned into so much more than that. I lost control—and the plan I’ve put in place is at least partially dependent on my always being in complete control.

  And it’s not just events I have to manipulate. What I really need is complete control of how these people—Lander, Travis, Jessica, all of them—see me. Gone are the days when I was just a hapless victim in someone else’s story. Three years ago I started writing a new story. I wrote myself as a character into a story of revenge and retribution. The other characters will see me the way I want them to because I’m the one holding the pen. This is my narrative, damn it! I decide how the story goes, I set the pace, and I decide how and when it all will end.

  But every time Lander touches me . . . it’s almost like he takes control of the pen. Like he’s writing the story with me.

  And when he touches me, he sees me. Not the character, but the author behind the paper. And as exciting as that is, I absolutely can’t allow it to ever happen again.

  Stupid, I think as I reach the stairs that lead aboveground. My heels click against the concrete steps, adding an accompanying beat to the word as it pounds through my head again and again. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I was stupid when I was a child, too stupid to see what was being done to my mom—and now that I know the truth, I’m still just as stupid, letting myself be swayed by something as primitive and inconsequential as physical desire.

  When I reach the sidewalk and outside air, I pause a moment, exhale, try to expel the demons of self-doubt. So I made some mistakes. But still, I’m on track. In the end that’s all that matters. Whatever feelings I may or may not have for Lander . . . well, those will fade.

  But my success? That’s something I’ll be able to savor for the rest of my life.

  I take another deep breath, start walking, find my stride again.

  “To justice,” I said as I handed him the drugged cognac.

  And justice is exactly what I’m going to get.

  The sunset’s pretty today; the pink hues make the streets of my neighborhood look deceptively safe. But there are little indications of a lurking danger: the occasional collection of glittering glass where a car was once parked, the subtle shabbiness of the local market, the shifty eyes of the boys who hang out on the corner, their pockets stuffed with danger and vice.

  I’m a bit out of place right now in my expensive career dress and sex-kitten heels, but no one bothers me. They know me around here, and even those who don’t still recognize my walk—confident, forceful. Anyone who’s ever watched a nature show knows that predators look for weak victims, ones who will be easy to take down. They’ll target the wounded animal that reeks of fear first.

  That’s not me.

  Were you scared, Bell?

  I shake my head, pushing away the memory as I walk on.

  “Don’t let that man get under your skin, honey!” a gravelly voice yells.

  I stop i
n my tracks and turn to see a homeless woman sitting on the pavement, a purple pen in one hand and a coloring book in the other. Lined up beside her are several broken crayons and stubs of colored pencils.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask warily.

  “I know your story,” she says. The streaks of gray in her mass of curly brown hair make her look more wild than unkempt. “You fell in love with the wrong man.”

  I laugh, suddenly relieved that this woman doesn’t know anything about me and embarrassed that for a moment I worried she might. “I’m not in love with anyone,” I say gently.

  “Girl, you just keep telling yourself that!” The woman chuckles, turning her attention back to her coloring book. “I fell in love with the wrong man once. No, make that twice—or three times . . . You know what? They’re all bad. Those men are all just a bunch of horned-up motherfuckers if you ask me.”

  Again I burst out laughing. But the woman keeps her eyes on her coloring book, her pen moving swiftly over the page.

  Glancing at her work I’m surprised to see how meticulous she is about staying inside the lines. The picture is of a mother and daughter walking hand in hand through a park. She’s colored the landscape in shades of green, yellow, and lavender, making the already pacific scene seem joyful and alive.

  I once saw the world that way, back when I was young enough to hold my mother’s hand.

  “But not all of God’s creatures are bad,” the woman continues. “Last night a raccoon came through here. Walked right up to me, gave me a nod hello, and then just kept on walking. Like a real gentleman.”

  “You gotta be careful of those things,” I warn. “Some of them have rabies.”

  “Yeah, well, at least a rabid raccoon has an excuse for bein’ mean. What’s the men’s excuse? They all got rabies too?”

  “No, they’re just men.” I study her for a moment. “What’s your name?”

  “Mary,” she says as she selects another color from her collection.

  “Are you hungry, Mary?”

  She looks up again, her wide brown eyes answering for her. I reach into my bag and hand over the Clif Bars. “Hope you like Blueberry Crisp.”

  She puts her colors down as she tears open a wrapper. “Chocolate Chip’s better.” She takes a bite, her eyes still on me. “Don’t let him hurt you, okay, honey?”

  “Oh, don’t you worry. No one’s going to hurt me, not ever again,” I say and zip my purse back up, turning to walk the last block home. “I’ve got everything under control.”

  I try to convince myself of my own words as I walk up to my building, but as I glance at the bars on the first-floor window my confidence wavers. I can handle living in a poor area, but damn do I hate these bars. They scare me so much more than the drug dealers on the corner. I can escape men like those, but you have to be Houdini to escape a cage.

  I grit my teeth and put my key into the lock of the front entrance, quickly stepping into the lobby. I stick another key into one of the tiny metal mailboxes to the left. The box is so small the postman has no choice but to crumple the mail before stuffing it in, as if people in my building aren’t even entitled to birthday cards that don’t have the appearance of discarded garbage. But today it’s all junk, except for one envelope addressed to a woman whose name I don’t use anymore. I tuck it into my purse and head up the narrow staircase to my apartment.

  When I get inside I double lock the door before applying a thick chain.

  My studio is sparse. There’s a little nightstand by my futon, where the picture of me and my mother at Disney World resides regally in its cheap plastic frame. My desk is completely buried, strewn with copies of newspaper and magazine articles about HGVB Bank and about Edmund Gable and the “Gable Boys” (as Esquire refers to Lander and Travis). THE KING OF FINANCIAL INVESTORS, reads another title boldly printed below a picture of Travis.

  And then there are the old articles, articles about Nick Foley. A VP at HGVB bank murdered in cold blood by his maid. A sordid tale of infidelity, jilted lovers, perversion—everything the media loves . . . except maybe the truth.

  But the articles sound so confident in their reporting. According to one, this woman, this murderess, this maid, had been rejected by her lover, the wealthy, respectable Nick Foley. You see, in a moment of weakness, Mr. Foley had fallen into the centuries-old tradition of fucking the help. But when his wife found out, the remorseful Mr. Foley tried to break it off. Clearly that was to be expected. But in this telling, the maid didn’t take it well. This maid had hoped that Mr. Foley would leave his wife for her. She didn’t understand.

  She didn’t understand her place.

  None of the papers actually say that, not in those words. But the sentiment is there, glaring between the lines. The silly maid thought that being fucked by her employer made her special. She actually presumed that an important VP would leave his blonde debutante wife for a little Mexican housekeeper, a woman who cleaned his toilet to earn money for groceries, food to feed herself and her bastard daughter. She was delusional . . . but more than that—she was dangerous. Only a few months earlier, a Haitian nanny who may or may not have been suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder had been caught trying to kidnap the children in her charge. And months before that, a Chinese limo driver had been exposed as being part of a crime ring—he was signaling his burglar associates every time he picked up an important client, letting them know which specific houses would be unoccupied for a while and would make good targets.

  So this story about the maid? It fit that narrative. The enemy lives among us, disguised as loyal servants. They have to be stopped, and quickly.

  It’s the kind of narrative that can influence a jury, the kind of bogeyman story that scares people into ignoring things like lack of evidence and due process.

  Of course, most of the information I have now was never discussed during the trial. Never even brought up. And I know from experience—painful, frustrating experience—that the authorities have absolutely no interest in looking at any new information now. They got their conviction, their headlines, their promotions; any new twist would just be inconvenient at this point.

  Just as well, perhaps. I touch the papers on my desk. All this information in the hands of a bureaucrat would be useless.

  But in the hands of a vigilante? It’s invaluable.

  In the dim light of my place, I smile to myself and reach into my purse, pull out my Android, and flip through the pictures I took at Lander’s place. The drawings catch my eye first. I study the one with the guy who is about to bite the hand of the man handing him money. Bite, Torture, Ruin. Is that supposed to be Lander? It’s really hard to tell. But it would be interesting if it was; it would be really interesting if this is how he sees himself.

  Lander left the country right after my mother’s trial, off to Oxford to add to his elitist portfolio of accomplishments, while at home his father destroyed lives and his mother died.

  Yes, that’s right. Lander’s mother died of cancer while his father was in the middle of divorcing her. Lander didn’t even bother to come back to see her until it was time for the funeral. And as soon as he graduated, he tucked himself neatly into his father’s organization and took a position at HGVB. They were side by side on the golf course in no time. As far as I can tell, Lander has never even bothered to visit his mother’s grave. He just sucked up to the rich parent, the one with the prestigious name and ability to dispense trust funds. That’s the kind of man Lander is—no matter what my body is trying to tell me now.

  My mind falls back to the night before, the way Lander kissed my neck, pulled me against him, the way he entered me slowly, gently, only increasing in intensity once he was sure that my eyes were on his, after he felt secure in our connection. No one had ever looked at me like that. No one had ever managed that balance between gentleness, power, and passion before.

  But it was an illusion. Nothing gentle lasts long in this world.

  Perhaps Nick was gentle when he kissed m
y mother, for all the good it did them.

  Again my mind travels back . . . back to that bed, back to the trail of kisses that had moved from my breast, to my stomach, down, lower, between my legs, the warmth of his tongue as he toyed with me, the sound of his voice when he raised himself back up, tugged gently on my hair, and whispered my name:

  “Bellona, such a beautiful warrior.”

  “I’m sorry, Lander,” I say as I open the top drawer of my desk and lightly caress the gun that I’ve hidden there. “But even beautiful warriors are killers.”

  chapter nine

  The dress I picked for the interview was based on Travis’s 1980s “Addicted to Love” aesthetic tastes. There’s nothing more pathetic than people who think “retro” and “modern” are interchangeable fashion concepts.

  But that look isn’t for Lander. For him, I put on a pair of skinny jeans, a white tee that’s just fitted enough with a cropped secondhand brown leather jacket and a few long silver chains I picked up at the Hell’s Kitchen Flea Market.

  Funny, but the clothes I know will impress Lander are the clothes I actually like to wear.

  A tiny voice in my head tells me to be wary of that, that any commonality with the enemy is a warning sign, not a convenience.

  He had wanted to pick me up—or maybe he just wanted to find out where I lived. I came up with an excuse for why he couldn’t arrive at my doorstep, but I didn’t bother coming up with a good excuse. It didn’t matter if he believed me or not. It only mattered that he wanted me enough to ignore the fact that he didn’t believe me. Men are incredibly easy that way.

  When I arrive at the restaurant—a popular Italian place, his pick—he’s already there, waiting at a table in an outfit that looks almost designed to complement mine: dark-blue jeans and a creamy cotton pullover, long sleeves pushed up on his forearms, five buttons at the neck, the top one undone. Very casual and, oddly, very sexy. He’s drawing something on a piece of scratch paper, but when he spots me across the room he folds it up and puts it in the pocket of his jacket, which hangs over the back of his chair. The pen he leaves idle on the table.