A Grand Seduction Page 15

  He glanced around in sudden self-conscious suspicion, teeth gritted and photos bent from the tight grip in his hand. For a moment she thought he was going to give in anyway, take his chances. Then he expelled a disgruntled breath. “What is it that you want, Frannie?”

  “Oh, so now it’s ‘Frannie?’ I don’t fucking think so. I want out. You screwed my friend and our marriage. From what I hear, both were unsatisfying. You’re going to give me a divorce, with a fair financial settlement.”

  “But the prenup—”

  “Might as well be used to wipe your lawyer’s ass, because it’s worthless now. You broke the terms.”

  He looked ready to argue the point, but for once kept silent. She leaned forward and plucked the photos from his hand. “Now, we can spare ourselves some of the indignity of these,” she waved a shot of orgasmic bliss light years removed from the expression on her husband’s face now, “by coming to a mutually agreeable split, or we can drag them through court. And I guarantee it will be more equitable for you if we settle.”

  Bruce stared for a long moment, then without warning fell to his knees. “I’m so sorry, Frannie. I’ll do anything to win you back. The servants, money, jewelry—they’re all yours again. Just don’t send me away.”

  She looked down on him, then stretched out a leg encased in black vinyl fetish boots and fishnet hose. She pushed her boot heel against his shoulder, knocking him back to the floor.

  “Save it for the next Mrs. Myers. As for me,” she bent over him and tugged a bow tied across breasts corseted in black vinyl, spilling their creamy flesh free for one final lust-bathed gaze. Splayed as he was on the floor—much as he had been the day he’d taken a tumble in the master bath—it was easy to see the outline of a raging erection.

  “I’m through listening to the endless bullshit. You’re going to spend the rest of your life remembering these.” She pressed them together a foot above his head. “Not to mention the best ass you’ll ever have. You trashed it all for some flat-chested little tart.”

  Wincing over apparent pain gathering in his crotch, the man began to weep. Fran smiled as she straightened, turned on her heel, and clicked her way out of his office. That’s where the dream ended.

  Fran opened her eyes to find the sunny surroundings of her bedroom. Stretching with a satisfied grin, she let the images wash over her for a while before pushing herself out of bed. She’d dreamed a replay of the night she faced off with Bruce several times over the past few months, except the part where she turned dominatrix while he fell to his knees begging. That was new. In truth, Bruce had spat out something about his lawyer, and she’d moved into the guest bedroom that very night. She kind of liked this alternate ending. Either way, it was a very good dream.

  Her feet sank into a delicious cloud of carpet as she crossed the mint-and-cabbage-rose bedroom to the window. Arms hugging herself over a chenille robe, she allowed herself a tight smile as she gazed out at the gray skies of late October. Dominique said Fran could likely extend her divorce settlement indefinitely by prudent investing of the tidy lump sum she’d received, but that wasn’t something the new Ms. Fran Harper trusted. Such was the tornado that had torn through her parents’ fortune. If not for a series of catastrophic investments on her late father’s part, Fran would have been in a far better financial position now. More important, she couldn’t help feeling that the fatal swerve off a bridge that ended her parents’ lives might never have happened. Though the crash had been ruled accidental, nightmares and gut instinct made her wonder otherwise.

  Fingering the damask curtains flanking the picture window, Fran swallowed the lump and accompanying thoughts of an allegedly icy bridge and their fatal plunge. The mere words “mutual fund” or “diversified portfolio” induced nausea-driven anxiety. She needed to find another way to ensure she stayed self-sufficient.

  Her eyes followed a sweeping gaze up the floral drapery and across soft folds of sheer fabric she’d arranged herself. Once a suitable idea for staying afloat over the long term had been worked out, maybe she would reconsider letting Dominique invest a small portion. And the seeds of just such an idea had been planted a few days earlier.

  Turning away from the window, she wandered over to the master bath, peeling off her robe and depositing it on the still unmade bed as she went. She would not have to make her bed today. Juanita was coming. The small condo hardly required a housekeeper, but she made damn well sure to hire one to come in twice a week anyway.

  Bending over to run her bath, she mulled over the idea spawned by a conversation with Tracy Applegate. Married to the heir of a well known cosmetics fortune, the pixie blonde wallowed in the same misery Fran knew all too well, despite private jets and all the cosmetics she could ever want.

  Steam swirled around her as she added a capful of lavender bath salts and pulled her cotton nightdress over her head. Tracy’s unhappy marriage struck a chord of sympathy and gratitude in Fran’s stomach. Still, in the midst of a rather downer of a conversation, Tracy had offered up a shining jewel of an idea. Two, in fact. As Fran sank into a relaxing soak, she wondered what the group would say.

  One thing was for certain. Today’s lunch at Odette’s would likely prove more interesting than any they’d had in months.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The crisp air surrounding Odette’s bordered on sharp, the kind that plumed from nostrils and prompted predictions that the Delaware would freeze early this winter for sure. Such a freeze conjured up images of Washington’s iceberg-periled crossing, and normally wasn’t due until Christmas trees winked in windows up and down the river bank. Either way, the nip in the air was sharp despite the sun rippling like laughter on the still-liquid surface of the water.

  Clad in a jewel-toned array of mohair, angora, wool, and Irish knit, the four ladies overlooked the grinning slash of Delaware from their usual table. Ronald was absent, and their server wound up being a new girl with a cheap perm and a name tag that read Donna.

  Cheeks rosy atop a jade angora turtleneck, Fran sipped coffee while listening to the latest gossip. Twyla’s stress was escalating from an absentee husband and frequent visits from the in-laws, Dominique was embroiled with a client as demanding as Nero, and Ridelle was still unemployed.

  “That makes six turn downs this month,” Ridelle said, plucking at a slouchy maroon cable knit she’d paired with black leggings. “I didn’t even get a call back on half of them. I’m sick of this crap economy.”

  “Can you just talk to your dad?” Twyla asked, her hair poodling from a ponytail high atop her head. “Maybe when he hears how hard you’re trying, he’ll change his mind. Or give you more time, at least.”

  Braided pigtails flopped in response as Ridelle shook a negative. “No way. He’s dead serious this time. I have to show that I can support myself by Christmas or he cuts me off.”

  The other woman looked skeptical as she plucked a stray blond hair from dark purple wool. “But he can’t let you rot in the street. You’re his only daughter.”

  Ridelle shrugged. “And the only child he’s had to support ten years after high school.” She sighed. “My father is done being my personal ATM, and let’s face it. He’s right. It’s not his fault I never met a major I didn’t like—for the first month.”

  Sleek in black mohair over creamy wool slacks, Dominique peered across the table over steaming coffee. “Any more prospects lined up?”

  “Nothing. It’s not like I’m loaded with credentials or experience.” She paused. “I hate to say it, but I almost wish I’d taken Bruce up on his offer.”

  Fran’s head jerked back, eyes shot open to golf ball size. “The Jackhammer? Are you crazy?”

  The girl laughed at the nickname. “Not that offer. He told me he’d help me get a job.”

  Twyla scratched the side of her head. “Bruce knew about your dad’s warning?”

  “I used it as an excuse for why I sounded upset the day after we, well, when it happened. He offered to make a few calls, but I turned
him down. Now I sort of wish I hadn’t.”

  Fran snorted as their appetizers arrived. “Trust me, hon, he’s not a man you want thinking you owe him. You’d be better off pursuing an illustrious fast food career.”

  Ridelle smirked as she reached for the plate of calamari. “Maybe, but Halloween is tomorrow. The holidays are here. With everyone busy getting ready for vacations and office parties, landing interviews is going to be a task by itself. And with my list of qualifications, getting hired is looking less and less possible.” She speared a ring of rubbery fish and dragged it through a cup of marinara. “Maybe the Salvation Army is hiring bell ringers. Or I can eat a ton more calamari and be a department store Santa.”

  “Well, you always did look stunning in red,” Dominique said. Her eyes sparkled with mischief.

  “I have a suggestion,” Fran said. “Tracy Applewhite called me the other day.”

  Dominique paused mid-chew. “Who?”

  “Applewhite. You remember, from the Christmas Party last year. Canary diamond bigger than a fist?”

  Recognition glittered. “Oh, her. How is that diamond, anyway?”

  Fran rolled her eyes. “Ready to crack. I think she pointed me to my true calling.”

  Ridelle looked up from the plate of food she was shoveling through. “What’s that?”

  Fran beamed at each girl in turn. “She wants me to redecorate her living room. She loved what I did with the evil ex-house and she’s giving me carte blanche to redo her great room. If she likes it, I might get to do the whole place. Isn’t that fantastic?”

  Ridelle nodded with a grin. “Faboo, Frannie. I told you you’ve got major talent. Why not make money off her bankroll?”

  “And it’s not just Tracy’s place, either. She has friends lined up, waiting to shell out all kinds of large bills if I do a good job for her. This is it, guys. The career I never knew I wanted, practically handed to me.”

  Twyla dropped her napkin back into her lap. “Don’t you need some kind of degree or something to be an interior designer?”

  Fran took a sip of tea, smiling into the cup as if a tantalizing secret lingered there. “Already thought of that. There’s a school in New York that has evening classes part time. I want to sign up. Meanwhile, Tracy doesn’t care about my training, just my results.”

  Dominique’s eyebrows rose. “Sounds great. I still think you should let me make some investments for you, thought. Small, discreet. Nothing too risky.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Fran’s eyes sparkled like the Delaware as it laughed and winked out the window behind her. “If this design stuff goes the way I hope it will, I might need to diversify or whatever.”

  “Here’s hoping,” Ridelle said, lifting her coffee cup in Salud. “You mentioned a suggestion for my employment problem. I don’t suppose your friend has something up her Prada sleeve for me, too?”

  “Yeah,” Twyla said. “Maybe Fran could hire you as an assistant?”

  “Me?” Ridelle snorted. “I’ve got the design flair of a homeless drunk.”

  Fran sat back, folding her arms across her sweater. “Actually, Tracy had a whole second proposition to make that could bail Ridelle out. One that concerns us all.”

  Donna the waitress reappeared. “Something from the dessert cart?”

  Heads shook all around. “Where’s Ronald today, by the way?” Ridelle asked, shooting Fran a sharp look when she giggled.

  The woman kept scribbling on her pad. “Called in sick. I’m covering.” She tore the top sheet off and deposited it on the center of the table. Apparently, covering his shift meant getting rid of customers in record time. “I’ll pick this up as soon as you’re ready.”

  “Someone should explain to her that you win bigger tips with honey rather than vinegar,” Fran said. Seeing Ridelle’s questioning gaze, she came back to the topic at hand. “As I was saying, Tracy needs our help.”

  Dominique shrugged. “With what?”

  “She wants a divorce.”

  “What’s that got to do with us?” Twyla said, the word prompting a glance at her own ring finger. “We aren’t divorce lawyers.”

  “Why does she want out of that marriage?” Ridelle asked, stirring the last bit of calamari around the marinara. “She landed a handsome guy with beaucoup money and all the free cosmetics she can eat. A true fairy tale romance.”

  Fran snorted, the late afternoon sunshine behind her frosting shimmery highlights along the edges of her hair. “To hear her tell it, her fairy tale involves damsels in distress and brutish ogres.”

  “So give her your attorney’s number and our best wishes,” Dominique said. “There’s nothing we can do.”

  “Yes, there is,” Fran went on. “She needs help. The kind you gave me.”

  Twyla straightened in her seat, snapping her mouth shut from a gaping pose before responding. “No way.”

  Dominique leaned close to the redhead, lowering her voice to a whisper. Her eyes pierced the air. “Frannie, you didn’t tell her the truth about Bruce, did you?”

  She shrugged. “No. Not in so many words.”

  Ridelle coughed. “What? How many words did you use?”

  “Because if you did,” Dominique continued, “you’d be putting us all at risk.”

  “I didn’t tell.” Ridelle’s shushing motion with finger to lips brought Fran’s volume back down. “She’s so unhappy. Desperate, just like I was. I didn’t let on what we did. I just told her there might be a way to help.”

  Ridelle grunted. “Let me guess—she has a crappy prenup, too? Doesn’t anyone get married with a speck of trust anymore?”

  “The Applewhite fortune is protected by a big time prenup,” Fran said, “but it does allow for provision in case of divorce. Except in some cases, which is the problem. Her husband reads squeaky clean, whereas Tracy has a bit of a past.” To the host of raised brows she quickly added, “Nothing bad. Just a little college fun. You know, pot. Shoplifting, once. She’s been clean since, but his family is guaranteed to use it against her. She’ll walk away penniless by the time they’re done with her.”

  Ridelle scrutinized a split end poking from the bottom of a braid, then yanked it out. “No offense, but those are the consequences for having a past. Maybe she shouldn’t leave Mr. Squeaky Clean if she’s not willing to lose the money.”

  “I said he reads squeaky clean,” Fran said. “Not that he is. This isn’t Prince Charming we’re talking about. But he comes off like a real pillar of society, and his family gives generously to local politics.”

  Twyla shook her head. “Sorry her prince turned out to be a toad, hon, but I still don’t see why we should get involved. If it’s that bad, she should just walk away from the money and start over.”

  Fran’s eyes flashed. “What, like I should have done?”

  Twyla blinked. “I’m not saying that. You had your reasons.”

  “Tracy has reasons, too.”

  “Yeah,” Ridelle said. “The money.”

  Fran shook her head. “She wants some to get by on, sure. But this is about fairness. Why should she get punished for his bullshit?”

  Ridelle shrugged, but Dominique had gone stiff. The waitress cruised by, eyeing the as-yet unaddressed check.

  “But she’s not our friend,” Twyla’s voice held an imploring edge.

  “She’s my friend, and she wants out.” Fran’s voice pointed at Twyla, but her eyes fastened on Ridelle. “More important, she wants out bad enough to pay for help to do it.”

  Ridelle’s eyes widened a fraction. “How much?”

  “Expenses, plus a percentage of the settlement.”

  Twyla leaned forward, brow furrowed in deep ridges. “In exchange for what? We’re not running a brothel here, you know. And you said you didn’t tell her anything.”

  “She said she’d pay for help getting out. We just didn’t get into specifics.”

  “How do we know it would even work this time?” Ridelle said. “Maybe he’s not the cheating type.”


  Dominique stirred from her silent reverie. “They’re all the cheating type, darling.” She tapped her fingernails against her empty coffee cup. “It’s just a matter of the right opportunity presenting itself at the right time.”

  Twyla shrugged. “And we’re supposed to dish up Ridelle again as the opportunity? Have you all forgotten last time?” She turned to the girl, who stared back with soft brown eyes. “I’m the one you called afterward. I heard the tone in your voice. Surely it’s not worth a few extra dollars?”

  “Try a few thousand,” Fran said. “A grand in advance for expenses, and another ten when it’s done.”

  Ridelle sucked in a breath. “Eleven thousand dollars?”

  “Surely numbers like that would help you with your dad’s ultimatum?”

  Twyla crossed her arms. “You’re not seriously thinking of agreeing to this?”

  Before she had a chance to answer, Fran jumped in. “No, she’s not.” The woman met Twyla’s narrowed gaze.

  A confused frown crossed Ridelle’s face. “Why not? It’s not like I’m a virgin this time.”

  “You’re not doing this,” Fran said. “I am.”

  “You?” Dominique laughed. “Dating scene not turning out to be all it’s cracked up to be?”

  “I’m serious.” She turned to Ridelle. “I’ll split the money, of course. But the deed itself will be mine. She’s my friend, and it feels right.”

  Ridelle’s brows flew up. “Cheating with your friend’s husband most definitely does not feel right. Trust me.”

  Fran paused for a moment. “It’s my chance to pay forward the good fortune of having such wonderful friends.” She looked around the table, then slid her hand over and grasped Ridelle’s. “I can never repay you for what you did. Only now, I kind of can.”

  “Okay,” Ridelle said. “Fine. It’s your friend, and your call. But why split the money? I could use eleven grand, but if you’re the one doing all the work, I don’t see why I should get a share.”