A Grand Seduction Read online

  Bruce played simultaneous host, barkeep, and entertainer, and he and Ridelle’s respective duties kept them at a distance during her many trips through the room. No matter how distracted she was, however, she couldn’t help but feel his presence. It tugged like an invisible cord that pulsed between them, heightening her awareness of his location in the room. She thought she felt his smoky topaz eyes burning her skin, though she found them focused elsewhere when she risked a glance. She dared to catch his eye a couple of times, never with Fran in the room and hopefully without raising any eyebrows. When their eyes did catch, the reward was a quick and ready smile from him, followed by the slight gnaw of indigestion.

  If nothing else, she had to admit the man juggled his roles with impressive aplomb. Laughing and lighthearted as he appeared, Bruce Myers took the job of client-rubbing and back clapping seriously. All that expenditure of charm was no doubt why he had zip left for his wife at the end of the day. Then again, maybe if his wife fixed him a ‘Collins flambe’ every now and again, he’d be more inclined to keep his trouser target at home.

  The thought froze her in place for a moment, and she knocked it away with a mental slap. She was here to help Fran, not point a finger at her. Ridelle completed her waitressing circuit at the head of the table, where Bruce was now seated. Crossing behind, she stepped between him and Fran—it was decided that his wife would be seated and served during the meal—and proffered a porcelain tureen of Coq au Vin. To his nod she leaned over, inhaling the heady aroma of garlic and Cabernet steaming from the fricassee of gourmet chicken as she ladled it onto his plate.

  An upward glance found the dilated pupils of a cherry-faced Irishman fastened to her chest. They gaped in a thick haze of anticipation, as if an areola might pop free from the gaping boundaries of her halter at any moment, wave at him, then whistle Dixie for good measure.

  A quick, but innocuous narrowing of her eyes bounced the other man’s bloodshots off her bosom before she realized Bruce had been speaking to her. Her gaze quickly snapped to the man below her, where she saw a hint of knowing smile. Bruce had noticed the exchange with the overstuffed leprechaun.

  “You’ll join us, of course?” he asked, though it sounded less like a question and more like a decision.

  She looked up at Twyla, who was rounding the table with a dazzling smile and a bowl of potatoes. “Thank you, but I’ll just grab something in the kitchen later.”

  “Nonsense. You’re a guest. The least I can do to show gratitude for this excellent food is to have you dine with us.”

  Ridelle stopped ladling and straightened up, catching Fran’s eyes cooling measurably. “But the guests need to be served.”

  “Fran will help.” He leaned forward to address his wife, his tone dulling from accommodation to command. “Why don’t you get up and help, Frannie? That way our guests can relax for a while.”

  Ridelle froze, panging with embarrassment for her friend as Fran’s gaze circled the table. Only a handful of those seated nearby overheard—the Irishman and his plump wife, a Jackie Kennedy clone, and a natty thirtyish blond man. Still, there was a moment of awkward silence.

  Brassy hair glistened in the twinkling light as Fran nodded. To her credit, she arose with all the graciousness of a goodwill ambassador welcoming a relief envoy to a ravaged land. “Of course.” Then in a thready hush to Ridelle, “I’m not very hungry, anyway.”

  So that’s how it came to be that Ridelle found herself at the far end of the Myers’ table, at the right hand of the host and waited upon by the woman she was doing the favor of betraying. She had to force herself to eat, especially with Bruce’s eyes flicking her way. While Twyla picked at her meal to appear polite and Frannie fussed over guests she’d all but ignored thus far, Ridelle seized the opportunity to escape when diners began pushing away from the table. She loaded herself with a stack of dirty plates and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Throwing a black dish towel over her shoulder, she filled one side of the sink with suds and let water spray into the other. She gingerly plunged dishes one at a time into the soap. No group bath or dishwasher for these platinum-plated babies. Not at sixty dollars a place setting.

  Tiny pings of water spattered her designer take-me-now dress, but Ridelle paid no attention. Why did she feel so guilty? She’d done nothing wrong. Well, nothing that her friends—tonight’s hostess included—hadn’t pressed her into doing. Except now, that hostess was acting less than grateful for Ridelle’s efforts. Did Fran honestly think she wanted to be here? That she’d secretly horned after this guy all these years and now jumped at the chance to play hide-the-sushi-roll with him? After ten years of friendship, Fran should know better than that. Then again, after ten years, there were still things her friends didn’t know about her. For instance, why it was exactly that what Ridelle was willing to do for friendship was a much bigger stretch than any of the group imagined.

  She reached up from sponging a salad plate to wipe a brow beaded with perspiration. Between running water and streaming thoughts, Ridelle never heard the footsteps behind her.

  “I know what it is that you’re doing.”

  With a gasp that erupted as a tiny yelp, Ridelle spun around to find Bruce behind her, too close for polite company.

  His eyes fixed on hers with a pointed gaze bouncing between mocking and gruff. “And it’s not going to work.”

  Her response forced itself past the adrenaline shock to her heart. “The dishes?”

  He shook his head with deliberate slowness. “I see the game you three are playing.”

  Damn it. She should have realized she could never pull this off. Serving herself up with an apple in her mouth was as stupid a ploy as it got.

  Panic manifested as blurted babble. “Game? What game?”

  Bruce leaned toward her, and Ridelle pressed her backside even tighter against the edge of the sink. His reach veered to her right, where he deposited a brief stack of dishes atop the pile she’d whittled only halfway down.

  He was already pulling back when his scent hit her. Though mixed with an amalgamation of alcohols and rich foods, his cologne found its mark and took her out at the knees. There was no mistaking the genuine, though brief, swoon as Obsession detached her legs from her brain’s control. Happened every time.

  Of course, Bruce had no way of knowing the cause. Ridelle’s eyes fluttered for a moment, then opened to find an amused glance as he stepped back. Her reaction and ensuing blush was not enough to keep from giving suspicion a voice.

  He waggled an accusing finger, though the tone was playful. “You three thought if you plied me with good food and wine that I’d go soft and do your bidding. But I’m onto you.”

  “You are?” Why could she no longer speak more than two syllables?

  “Yep. I thought Fran might pull something like this.”

  She gripped the counter behind her as he leaned in again, sucking in a breath before his cologne could get within firing range.

  His voice lowered to a graveled whisper. “Between you and me, I’d love nothing better than to dip into something more tantalizing than what I’ve been stuck with of late. But giving in won’t teach my wife the right lesson, will it?”

  Direct, wasn’t he?

  She blew out the breath she’d been holding when he pulled back, hoping to blow away the coma-inducing fragrance as she did. “I suppose not.”

  Three syllables. A bare improvement.

  Her attempt to meet his triumphant grin evaporated when she glanced over his shoulder—and caught sight of Twyla en route through the door. The woman halted in admirable silence, brows raised well against her forehead. Instead of responding to Ridelle’s bail-me-out look, she spun around without a word and crept away.

  “I appreciate you helping Frannie out,” he went on, “but you’ll be doing her a bigger favor by letting her reap the rewards of what’s she’s earned.”

  She blinked. “You ‘appreciate’ it?”

  “Sure. I know you’re all friends. I’m
sure she’s told you all about how awful it is, being a housewife with no servants. I get that this isn’t exactly a one room cottage, but I’m trying to help her. Fran’s always been spoiled. She’s used to being handed everything without giving back in return. If nothing else, I intend to make sure she learns to appreciate how easy she’s had things.”

  “Oh.”

  Ridelle stared at him. Still, his I’m-doing-her-a-favor argument lost credibility when she wondered just where banging other women and making Fran feel like used shoe leather fit in.

  “I know she dragged you two in on this little scheme to convince me to hire back our housekeeper.”

  Ridelle blinked as the words took sank in like molasses through a strainer. “Housekeeper?”

  “You can either tell Fran I figured it out, or it can be our little secret.”

  The housekeeper thing. That’s what he thought they were up to. Relief flooded her chest until he paused, his smile dropping to near flat line. Her heart thudded as he reached a hand toward her, grazing her breast almost reverently as he plucked the dish towel from its perch. “You’ve got soap suds on your forehead.”

  No words would come as he dabbed the center of her now-empty brain, then handed the towel back to her. He turned and strolled out of the kitchen, twisting at the door to call out his final play. “Great as the meal was, Fran isn’t getting her way on this one. I’d say I’m sorry you had to show up for nothing, but it seems I’m not. Not in the slightest.”

  She stared into the vacant space long after he was gone.

  Chapter Eight

  Dominique reclined on an oversized white sofa, her stocking feet curled beneath as she pressed the phone to her ear. She toyed with a clip-on emerald cluster earring as she stared straight ahead at the view through the sliding glass door to a patio flanked with an overhang of slippery elm. The other end rang once.

  Warm even by early June standards, Dominique indulged the fact that she was alone in her condo by stripping off her Ralph Lauren blouse and sat in the black satin camisole underneath. Surrounded by geometric modernistic lines in the main room downstairs, she smoothed her straight black skirt to its end point well above the thigh.

  Three rings.

  Pandora jumped into Dom’s lap, arching her back and rubbing a layer of white angora fur onto the camisole’s bodice. Still staring out where broad leaves waved over a black iron bistro patio set, the woman snugged the handset between shoulder and ear to stroke along her pet’s back. The feline erupted into a frenzied purr. Cats were so simple and complex. Aloof, sleek, and exotic to a near fault, the solitary creatures were unafraid and self reliant, packaged by the powers that be without requirement for the constant babysitting, reassurance of undying love, and pats on the head that dogs—and men, for that matter—possessed. Still, they did have needs that were capable of appearing and vanishing on the slightest whim, and they were quite a bitch to deal with if these whims went unmet.

  Dominique could relate.

  Much to Pandora’s dismay, her owner lifted the stroking hand in order to check her three-day-old manicure. Dom scowled at the French-tipped manicure. What was she thinking when she allowed the salon to talk her into nude over white? She preferred startling reds, or the occasional slick of burgundy. Hell, she was practically defined by it. Still, she had to admit that the chipping factor was well reduced by the absence of stark contrast.

  The trade wasn’t worth it.

  Four rings, and the machine clicked on. Rolling her eyes, she suffered through a familiar message. “Hi, it’s Ridelle. Leave a message or call my cell. Thanks.”

  Short and to the point, just like her misguided friend. After a tone of epic length, she launched into action. “Ridelle, it’s me. Me being Dominique, in case you’ve forgotten. You know, your friend. Bosom buddy. One of three you stood up for lunch last week with some bullshit excuse about a headache. Pick up.”

  She paused, awaiting obedience. Nothing. This might take some doing.

  “Well, then, I guess you’re either busy avoiding Frannie, being mad at me for cooking up this plan, or you’ve joined a nunnery and are even now genuflecting over a set of rosary beads.”

  No reply.

  She let out a dramatic sigh. “You can’t keep ducking us forever, you know. We know where you live. You agreed to this of your own free will. We’re here to support you, Ridelle. If something’s going on in that mind of yours, either let us help or at least have the courtesy to let us off the hook by letting us know you’re all right. For all we know, you’ve been abducted and even now are being gang-probed by aliens.”

  A muffled click interrupted Dom’s monologue. “You’re a real Grade-A pain, you know that? The ‘A’ stands for ‘Ass,’ of course.”

  A sardonic grin bent blush-kissed lips. “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about a certain wayward friend.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Busy feeling sorry for yourself, or planning my untimely demise?”

  “Yes. I must say, this is turning into one of the more colorful low points in my role as the family screw up.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. And from what Twyla had to say, it sounds like screw may be an apt enough term soon enough.”

  “Twyla’s imagination likes to run on overtime. By-product of living in the land of kiddie make-believe.”

  “And yours likes to underestimate everything you do.”

  A snort came on the other end. “I hope Twyla didn’t go blabbing all this in front of Frannie?”

  “Why not? You do realize we’re not exactly keeping your affair a secret from her, right?”

  The girl sighed. “I know. It’s just getting weird already.”

  Dominique stopped twirling her emerald earring and dropped it on the glass top of the end table beside her. “Fran wants this to happen. She can handle it.”

  “You weren’t there, Dom. You didn’t see how it got between us. Or didn’t Twyla notice?”

  She shrugged. “If she did, she opted not to say.”

  “Fran acted a bit jealous. I think she’s mad at me.”

  “Maybe you just thought so because it’s a bit of an odd situation.”

  “Full blown freaky is more like it. Look, I signed on for this mission for one reason—to help Fran. If this is going to get in the way of our friendship, I’d rather back off now and not have an enemy on my list.”

  Dominique scratched at a pantyhose-covered calf. “Why don’t you talk to her about all this?”

  “I don’t think she’d be straight with me if I did. She doesn’t do confrontations.”

  “She might if I talked to her instead.”

  There was a pause. “Maybe.”

  “I really think you’re reading too much into this. Frannie seemed just fine at lunch last Wednesday. If you’d have showed up, you could have seen for yourself and saved almost a week of worry.”

  “I needed time to think this through.”

  Dominique pulled her legs from under her, sitting erect. Pandora grumbled in protest and hopped down to the floor. “Fine, but brooding time is over. I’ll talk to Fran, and you be at lunch tomorrow. We’ve more details to cover, if nothing else.”

  “What if she is mad?”

  “I’ll call you first and let you know what’s up. Deal?”

  Another pause, longer this time. “Thanks.”

  Dominique’s smile returned. “Good. I was beginning to think we were going to have to execute the missing diner’s formation.”

  “Funny. Let me know how your talk goes.”

  She shook her head as they clicked off their call, marveling at all the high school angst already at work when the real drama hadn’t even begun. Smoothing her chestnut chignon and tucking a bobby pin planning escape back into place, she rose from the couch and stretched. Lunch was almost an hour past, and nothing but a croissant and coffee had hit her stomach since yesterday.

  Padding through thick caramel shag with the cat all but underfoot, she skirted the edge
of a glass coffee table and crossed the moderate but striking room. A carpeted staircase took her up a level to the main floor, where she headed to the stark, all-white kitchen. Coffee was still baking on a warmer, so she poured her fourth cup of the day and checked the fridge. Grocery shopping was such a lackluster burden for her that she had failed to think of it yet again. After all, when one lived alone and rarely entertained at home, eating on the run was a much easier and more appetizing approach.

  Then again, had life offered her a better marital bargain she could be sitting in the glass mezzanine of ultra modern L’ Atelier Renault on the Champs Elysees, dining on salmon ratatouille while overlooking the Seine instead of pulling the remains of yesterday’s deli run from a fridge in Doylestown. That was the trade off—leftovers in a modest condo outside New York for designer goods and the ability to present in a crowd as though she was still sufficiently wealthy to disavow the notion that her divorce had devoured her and spit out nothing but bones and bitterness. Perhaps a tad of bitterness remained, true. But at least she could hold her head high, particularly in circles that still intersected like the Olympic rings through her Charles Edgar Stanton’s.

  Pawing through a white paper sack to find the remains of a soggy roast beef and onion sandwich, she dumped the affair in the microwave and pressed a button while turning her thoughts back to the conversation with Ridelle. The girl was young, though not prone to dramatic histrionics. Maybe she wasn’t overblowing things. Perhaps Fran wasn’t as happy with the arrangement as Dom thought. She’d studied Fran at the last lunch, especially when the topic of Ridelle’s absence was speculated on. Twyla and Fran had reflected on every nuance of the dinner party, right down to the way Ridelle had ladled food onto the man’s plate. If there had been a green-eyed monster lurking in Frannie, she’d kept it well-hidden behind a mask of laughter and happiness.