cause this.”
“A guy like your boss has got to have a few enemies.”
At that, she noticed Winston smiled, hands in his pockets in a casual stance, and glanced her way as his driver answered.
“Maybe, but the windows were tinted and I didn’t get a license. It happened too fast.”
By the time everything was wrapped up and Virginia confirmed to the solicitous paramedic that she would consult her own doctor in the morning, she insisted on waving down a cab. “Not that I didn’t enjoy the ride last time.” She softened her comment with a smile, which was pretty genuine. She didn’t hold any of this against Winston. Accidents happened. As to the embarrassing episode before the head bumping—well, she’d rather just forget about that and she hoped he would too.
To her relief, he made no final mention of it.
But as Aaron handed her into a cab, he cracked, “Don’t say I don’t know how to show a girl a good time.”
She laughed. “I just bet you do.”
For the first time, she was thinking that it was too bad after all that she couldn’t be one of them.
* * * * *
Marilou Carstairs tapped her perfectly pedicured toes in her new stilettos impatiently against the hard wood floor of their foyer, ignoring the scuff marks she was making in the process. Lucita would buff them out in the morning anyway.
Damn that Phil. They were going to be late for the ballet, all because he was too selfish to get home from work on time. Then he had to go and compound it by jabbering away on his cell phone right when she had finally managed to get him in his tux and almost out the door.
She didn’t care who he was talking to. It could be the president of his company for all she cared. She didn’t want to have to wait until intermission to get into the theater.
He was probably talking to that horrid mistress of his who he thought he was so smart to hide from her. A waitress, for God’s sake. The filthy girl. She was no better than a hooker in Marilou’s book, and she didn’t care one whit what her husband did with her. In fact, she had quite a nice cabana boy in Bermuda and a personal trainer at her gym here in New York who saw to her own needs on that score very nicely, thank you very much. Sometimes even together when she could manage it, though that usually set her back a few Rolexes, for sure.
“No,” she heard her husband whine into his cell phone from the other room. “That’s it. That’s all. The only picture I got. What do you think I am, a goddamn paparazzi or something?”
They really were going to be late.
“No, I didn’t get a picture of them making out. Why would they make out at the scene of a car accident?” A pause. “No, she didn’t have her shirt off. They were treating a head injury. You don’t take your shirt off to have somebody look at your head. Christ, what is wrong with you people? Print it or don’t print it. I couldn’t give a shit.”
Phil was suddenly next to her, reaching for his overcoat. “Let’s go.”
“What was that all about, darling?”
The doors to the private elevator to their apartment opened and they stepped in.
“It was about paying for those god-awful expensive shoes of yours by earning chump change being at the beck and call of a lunatic.”
She didn’t even want to ask.
Chapter Three
“Mrs. Fields, I just could not be in this building and fail to pay my respects to you.” Rye Kinsey parked his fat black briefcase on the immaculate surface of her desk and leered at her, as if she was a “hot ticket” instead of the conservatively dressed, gray-haired woman she knew she was. She laughed on cue. “I’m flattered, Mr. Kinsey. But I don’t suppose that you may also want to say hi to my boss, would you?”
“Oh, him. He’s just an excuse so I can get over here to see you,” Rye confided conspiratorially. “But I guess since I’m already here.”
She leaned over, about to buzz Mr. Winston when Rye said, “Wait, is he in
“A guy like your boss has got to have a few enemies.”
At that, she noticed Winston smiled, hands in his pockets in a casual stance, and glanced her way as his driver answered.
“Maybe, but the windows were tinted and I didn’t get a license. It happened too fast.”
By the time everything was wrapped up and Virginia confirmed to the solicitous paramedic that she would consult her own doctor in the morning, she insisted on waving down a cab. “Not that I didn’t enjoy the ride last time.” She softened her comment with a smile, which was pretty genuine. She didn’t hold any of this against Winston. Accidents happened. As to the embarrassing episode before the head bumping—well, she’d rather just forget about that and she hoped he would too.
To her relief, he made no final mention of it.
But as Aaron handed her into a cab, he cracked, “Don’t say I don’t know how to show a girl a good time.”
She laughed. “I just bet you do.”
For the first time, she was thinking that it was too bad after all that she couldn’t be one of them.
* * * * *
Marilou Carstairs tapped her perfectly pedicured toes in her new stilettos impatiently against the hard wood floor of their foyer, ignoring the scuff marks she was making in the process. Lucita would buff them out in the morning anyway.
Damn that Phil. They were going to be late for the ballet, all because he was too selfish to get home from work on time. Then he had to go and compound it by jabbering away on his cell phone right when she had finally managed to get him in his tux and almost out the door.
She didn’t care who he was talking to. It could be the president of his company for all she cared. She didn’t want to have to wait until intermission to get into the theater.
He was probably talking to that horrid mistress of his who he thought he was so smart to hide from her. A waitress, for God’s sake. The filthy girl. She was no better than a hooker in Marilou’s book, and she didn’t care one whit what her husband did with her. In fact, she had quite a nice cabana boy in Bermuda and a personal trainer at her gym here in New York who saw to her own needs on that score very nicely, thank you very much. Sometimes even together when she could manage it, though that usually set her back a few Rolexes, for sure.
“No,” she heard her husband whine into his cell phone from the other room. “That’s it. That’s all. The only picture I got. What do you think I am, a goddamn paparazzi or something?”
They really were going to be late.
“No, I didn’t get a picture of them making out. Why would they make out at the scene of a car accident?” A pause. “No, she didn’t have her shirt off. They were treating a head injury. You don’t take your shirt off to have somebody look at your head. Christ, what is wrong with you people? Print it or don’t print it. I couldn’t give a shit.”
Phil was suddenly next to her, reaching for his overcoat. “Let’s go.”
“What was that all about, darling?”
The doors to the private elevator to their apartment opened and they stepped in.
“It was about paying for those god-awful expensive shoes of yours by earning chump change being at the beck and call of a lunatic.”
She didn’t even want to ask.
Chapter Three
“Mrs. Fields, I just could not be in this building and fail to pay my respects to you.” Rye Kinsey parked his fat black briefcase on the immaculate surface of her desk and leered at her, as if she was a “hot ticket” instead of the conservatively dressed, gray-haired woman she knew she was. She laughed on cue. “I’m flattered, Mr. Kinsey. But I don’t suppose that you may also want to say hi to my boss, would you?”
“Oh, him. He’s just an excuse so I can get over here to see you,” Rye confided conspiratorially. “But I guess since I’m already here.”
She leaned over, about to buzz Mr. Winston when Rye said, “Wait, is he in
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