Look Closer

“Listen, Vicky, this isn’t for everybody,” he says. “My investors, they love the upside of my investments and aren’t that concerned with the downside. They can risk twenty million in the market because they have plenty more. You don’t. I get that. And look, twenty million dollars is a lot of money. You could sit on it, invest in low-risk bond funds and some index funds, live mostly off the interest, and cut into the principal slowly. You can be comfortable. Your whole life, you’ll be very, very comfortable. If that’s where your head is—then you should do that. I could put that together for you. Or you could use one of those other financial advisers you interviewed. No hard feelings. This isn’t a hard sell.”

I look up from the proposal. “You’d put together a low-risk portfolio for me?”

“If that’s what you prefer.”

“But you don’t do that. I mean, everything I’ve read about you—that’s not your game.”

“No, it isn’t. Actually, I’ve never done it before.”

“But you’d do it for me.”

He lifts a shoulder. “I would.”

“Why?” I prod.

“I . . . like you,” he says. “I like your style.”

That’s what I thought.

I slowly nod my head. He keeps my eye contact. Finally, I break it, looking over at the leather couch in the corner. Then back at him. He’s still looking at me.

“You have any other appointments today?”

He pauses a beat. “I do not,” he says.

“When does your receptionist leave?”

He looks over toward the door, more confident now that he’s reading this correctly. “Five o’clock,” he says.

“Maybe give her a break today, let her off early,” I suggest.

Now he’s sure, and he knows how to handle it. “I could do that.”

I smirk. “Then do it.”

He pushes a button on his phone. “Emily, I don’t have anything else today. Why don’t you take off a little early?”

I stand up and unbutton my dress, taking my time with each button, watching him watch me. My dress drops to the floor. I step my heels out of it and lean over the table.

“I’m going with option one, Mr. Newsome,” I say. “Take me for the ride of my life.”

24 Vicky

“Maybe you had a point about water,” I say. “Because I need some right now.” I untangle my sweaty body from Christian’s and get off the couch.

“In the fridge by the bar,” he says. “Where are my manners?” He has that smug, self-satisfied look that men have after they think they’ve rocked my world.

He was fine. Not as good as he thought he was, but fine. He knew what he was doing. It’s just that I’ve never gotten to the point that I find intimacy in sex. Brief, raw pleasure is the most I can get from it, on a good day.

I grab a bottle for each of us and return to the couch. He does a sit-up to get to the seated position, allowing him one more opportunity to show me his ripped abdominal muscles. He’s got a great body, I’ll give him that. The guy must spend hours a day in the gym honing it. Whoever compared bodybuilding to masturbation had a point.

Christian takes a drink from the bottle and lets out a satisfied sigh. “Well, Mrs. Dobias, that was . . .”

Don’t say amazing. Please don’t.

“. . . fun.”

“You have a lot of energy,” I say.

“You bring it out in me.”

“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.” I take a drink of water and find my phone. It’s a quarter to seven. We’ve been going at it for over two hours. I’m going to be sore tomorrow. I’m out of practice. I haven’t had sex for months.

“Can I ask you a question?” he says.

“Shoot.”

“Have you ever done this before?”

I pull on my underwear, hook up my bra. “Do you want me to answer that?”

“I do.”

“Are you sure? You wouldn’t prefer to remain in your male-fantasy bubble, that you’re the only one who can unleash the tigress inside me?”

“Wow,” he says, though he chuckles.

I lean over him, face-to-face. “No, Christian, I have never done anything like this before. I’ve been a very good girl for the last ten years.”

I put my dress back on, a little wrinkled now. As he’s pulling on his trousers, Christian says, “By the way, we never circled back on that trust language.”

“What about it?”

“I’ve never seen language quite like that, but your take on it is accurate. It’s valid and enforceable. You must stay married for ten years before you can touch that money.”

“Tell me about it. But what about my question?”

“Whether you can spend it, without his approval, once you have it.”

I turn and look at him. “That was my question, yes.”

He gives me a poker face for a moment, then winks. “Yes, you can. My lawyer will draw up something just to lock that down and if Simon will sign it, you have no worries. You spend that money however you want. You’re probably okay either way, but best if he signs it.”

“He’ll sign it,” I say. “He trusts me.”

We both pause on the irony of that statement.

“I care about him,” I say. “I don’t want him to get hurt. That’s not my intention.”

“Of course not.” He waves a hand. “With the money I’ll make you, whatever else happens, he’ll be rich beyond his wildest dreams.”

I nod, look away, start gathering my things.

“What happens next?” he says to me.

“Meaning what? I’ll get him to sign whatever form you give me.”