Part 8 (1/2)

And in response she smiles.

AT THE OFFICE the stares are only a little less intense than the looks I had gotten in Vegas. Tom Love raises an eyebrow as I pa.s.s him in the hall and flashes me an approving smile.

”Go get 'em,” he murmurs.

The directive excites me. Today I feel ready to take on the world.

But when I get to my office, it's not the world that's waiting for me, but a message from Dave's secretary asking me to call him. Dave always calls me directly. He never has his secretary do it unless there's something he needs to tell me that he doesn't think I'll like.

I don't sit, but stand in front of my desk as I dial the number. I don't bother with the middleman, but call his cell directly.

”Kasie, I have a meeting in five minutes-” Dave begins but I cut him off.

”Then tell me what you need to say quickly.”

I don't mean for the words to sound so harsh but for once I'm not interested in smoothing things over. I see the red flag being waved in the distance and I'm ready for the fight.

It's almost arousing.

”I spoke with that saleswoman today . . . the one with silver-streaked hair from that jewelry store-”

”The one who showed us the ruby.”

”Yes,” he says hesitantly. ”They're not being very flexible about the price.”

I don't say anything. I stare down at my bare ring finger. We can afford the ruby. We can afford to pay for its alluring imperfections.

”And I was thinking,” he continues, ”I was thinking of you . . . and then I thought of this absolutely beautiful estate ring in the window of a store by my work. . . . I stopped by there right as they opened this morning. It's really perfect, Kasie. So I went ahead and put a deposit down on it so they'll hold it until you can come and see it. It's more us than the other ring anyway.”

My bare finger curls into my palm, leading my other fingers to do the same as I slowly make a fist.

”It's a diamond-”

”But I'm not moved by diamonds, Dave,” I interrupt. ”If we can't get the ruby ring we saw, surely there are others . . .”

”Trust me, Kasie, this diamond ring . . . it's different. I mentioned that it's an estate piece, right? It's cla.s.sic and elegant but it's also original, completely one of a kind. Just like you.”

Just like me. I stare down at the suit I'm wearing. Would Dave even recognize me today? He thinks I'm a concealed weapon in an Hermes bag. He thinks I'm a bouquet of white roses.

He thinks I'm diamonds even after I stood before him and flat out told him I'm rubies.

”Look, I gotta get into this meeting. I'll call you tonight, okay? We'll meet up after work tomorrow and I'll show you the ring. You don't really want a ruby for an engagement ring. Trust me, you'll end up regretting it.”

I hang up the phone without another word.

He doesn't know me.

But then this morning . . . that woman in the mirror, the sensual powerbroker, the stranger who sleeps with strangers, the woman who scares me and intrigues me . . . how could Dave know her. I don't know her.

I run my fingers over my lapel. It's not a smooth fabric, but it's not unpleasant to the touch either. It's thick and a little stiff, what you might expect from a man's jacket, but its cut is so decidedly feminine. It reminded me of a philosophy course I took in college. The professor had explained the true nature of yin-yang. Yin and yang weren't dualities but simply complementary opposites: the feminine and the masculine, the pa.s.sive and the active, the unseen and the manifest, the moon and the sun. And it all had to tie together within a greater whole to be part of a compelling and vitalizing system.

I giggle at the idea that my suit could be part of something both compelling and vitalizing.

But I stop laughing when I think of myself in those same terms. And those early Taoist philosophers, they didn't think of the dark being bad and the light being good. It had nothing to do with morality at all. They just thought of it as two essential parts of a whole.

I wonder what it feels like to be truly whole. Is that what's happening to me?

Because while I don't feel quite as guilty as I should, I do feel a h.e.l.l of a lot stronger than I ever have before.

Well, all right then.

I CALL MY TEAM into my office and get their updates, tell them what leads to follow and which bits of information can be brushed aside. They take notes, drink my words, accept my instructions without challenge. Only Asha hesitates, her own calculations slowing down her absorption of mine. At least that's my perception. She's studying me too intently; her comments seem to swirl around whatever it is she's really thinking. She is most definitely a threat. I'm sure of that now.

But she's the one who is truly in danger. She doesn't know who I am. I'm sensual, I'm commanding, I've been touched by a stranger.

It's only later in the afternoon that I remember that this isn't the woman I'm supposed to be. This isn't the picture I had in mind when I kissed Dave good night yesterday, pleading exhaustion.

And I haven't spoken to Robert today. We haven't so much as exchanged an e-mail and yet he's with me, luring me in new directions, providing me with a springboard for new temptations.

I haven't spoken to Robert Dade today but it doesn't matter.

My devil is winning.

CHAPTER 11.

I WORK LATE, WHICH is hardly unusual for me. I'm the last one in the office. Even Tom Love left more than an hour ago. But I'm feeling energized. Blame it on the suit . . . or the s.e.x. I laugh to myself. Yes, it's more likely the s.e.x than the suit.

In my hands and covering my desk are statistics, facts, and numbers. I'm using them as building blocks to craft Robert's professional dreams.

And if I succeed, what then? What if I manage to chart a path for Maned Wolf's complete market domination? What if I gift-wrap that particular treasure map and lay it at Robert's feet? Would he be amazed? Would he wors.h.i.+p me?

But that's not what I want. I like the way Robert sees me. There's a gritty realism to his affections. Our attraction to each other is almost brutal . . . and yet our lovemaking never has anything to do with distress or affliction.

What I want is for him to thank me, with his eyes, with his mouth, with his tongue. I want him on his knees, not in wors.h.i.+p, but in service.

These are the thoughts I'm having when my phone rings.

It's him. As usual, his timing is . . . opportune.

”Where are you?” he asks.

”I'm at work, playing with numbers . . . for you.”

”Oh, I doubt your motives are completely altruistic.” His voice sounds gravelly through our shaky connection. It has so much texture, I feel like I should be able to see it.