The Client Read online

  "Yes. I like pink champagne."

  "Like from An Affair to Remember?"

  "How do you know that movie?"

  "Everyone knows that movie."

  "I literally know one person who knows that movie," I told him. And Raven only knew it because I made her watch it. She wasn't a classic movie fan; she preferred romantic dramas.

  "Those uncultured swine," he said, chuckling. "I enjoy classic movies. My grandmother used to have me watch them with her."

  Ugh.

  Damn him again.

  I certainly didn't plan on having anything in common with the man.

  "Who do you like more. Audrey or Katherine Hepburn?" I asked, wanting to prove he wasn't as into it as he was saying.

  "They both have their merits. But you have to love Katherine. That was a powerhouse of a woman."

  Damn him once more.

  I always preferred Katherine. And not just because of her realist forward-thinking, feminist views in real life. I loved her cool confidence in her roles, the elegant way she spoke.

  "Clark Gable or Jimmy Stewart?"

  "Cary Grant. Obviously."

  "Why obviously?"

  "The Philadelphia Story, His Girl Friday, To Catch A Thief, An Affair to Remember."

  "You have a thing for romance movies," he concluded, making my stomach drop. I never would say that. I would never think that. But faced with my own admission, no other conclusion could be drawn, could it?

  "I like all sorts of classic movies. Most of them happen to have a love story attached."

  "Fair enough. So, are you not the least bit curious as to where we are heading?"

  "I imagined you would inform me eventually."

  "Have you ever been to Gianyar?"

  "Seeing as I have never heard of that, no."

  "It's in Bali. I have a home there. On the beach. Don't worry. You will have your own room. As will Alvy. Everything all above-board."

  "Why Bali?" I asked. He had the entire world at his disposal.

  "It's beautiful."

  "There are other places with more things to do."

  "If we get there, and you find yourself bored, we can be in Italy with a day's notice. Or Venice. Amsterdam for some wild fun. I am wholly at your disposal. Use me any way you see fit," he commanded, holding his arms out wide.

  "Why would you offer to follow every whim of a virtual stranger?"

  "It has been far too long since I've had a travel companion. I've already seen everywhere. It would be interesting to see someone else see it all for the first time."

  That was actually rather sweet.

  And I really needed not to be endeared to him on this job. I would inevitably feel guilty for scamming him, breaking his heart, and taking a nice sum of money for the trouble.

  I needed to get control of things again.

  "Don't you ever work? Earn your lavish living?"

  "The nice thing about owning many different businesses is you get paid when you are sleeping."

  "Don't you want to work for your money?"

  "I do work for my money. For a few days a year when there are meetings. When I acquire failing businesses, then make them profitable again. I earn my money, but I don't need to slave away to do so."

  "Doesn't jetting off to random parts of the world at a moment's notice seem frivolous to you?" I asked, even if I personally would cut off my left tit—in my personal opinion, my better one—to be able to have that sort of freedom in life.

  "Incredibly frivolous," he agreed. "Do you hate me because I'm rich, Wasp?"

  This was tricky, wasn't it?

  He wasn't supposed to be so blunt. Everything I had learned while researching him pointed to light and silly and over the top. Never serious. Never the type to put you on the spot.

  "No," I told him honestly. "My best friend and her husband are filthy rich too."

  "So your objection is to me personally."

  "My objection is to things—and people—without substance. Surface-level interactions, connections, and experiences are a waste of time."

  "Oh, I see," he said, nodding, face grave. "You are asking me to marry you."

  'What? Where the hell did you get that?"

  "You need deep interaction. I can help you in multiple ways on that front," he told me, tone suggestive, smirk devilish.

  "I don't believe in marriage," I informed him, not sure why I felt like I needed to tell him something personal.

  "Not even with the right man?"

  "There's no such thing."

  "As the right man for you? Oh, I think you are selling all of mankind short."

  "I think I am selling them just short enough."

  "You know what I think, darling?" he asked, giving me what I could only call a soft look.

  "Probably not. But something tells me you are going to tell me anyway."

  "I think all this cold of yours is hiding something really warm and mushy inside. And you're terrified someone will figure that out."

  "Stick to chasing models and buying fancy suits, Fenway," I told him, cool, cold even, trying to cover the churning discomfort of that truth in my stomach. "Psychoanalysis isn't your strong suit."

  Unperturbed, Fenway shrugged one of his shoulders, his knowing smile suggesting he knew just how close to the head of the nail he'd hit.

  "So would you like that drink now?" he asked.

  "Oh, God yes. I will need three just to get through this plane ride," I told him, settling in, wondering how we were going to fill the unforgiving silence in our close quarters.

  Luckily, after I got my drink, Fenway offered me mercy, reaching for a remote, making a television pop out of a cabinet, flicking around.

  "Here we go," he said, leaning back as he put something on, drawing my attention to the TV.

  An Affair to Remember.

  I couldn't help but wonder if it was more than the fact that we had discussed the movie. If he was hinting at something. Something about the two of us. About what he thought was going to happen once we got to Bali.

  What he didn't know was he was both right and wrong.

  It would be an affair of sorts.

  And it would be one to remember.

  But it would only be real for one of us.

  One movie turned into two. And then Fenway immediately put on a third as I shifted uncomfortably around in my seat.

  "Fenway?"

  "Yes, darling?" he asked, giving me that award-winning smile of his.

  "Exactly how long is this plane ride?"

  "This leg is about nine and a half hours."

  "Leg. Meaning we are laying over somewhere?"

  "I have tried to talk Josh into giving up sleep. Alas, he won't cooperate. We need to stop to fuel. Josh catches a little sleep. We can spend that time exploring the airport or getting rooms to rest as well. It would only be about six hours."

  "Where are we stopping?"

  "Qatar."

  "Qatar?" I repeated, the name vaguely familiar.

  "Near to Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates. We will be near a sprawling metropolis like New York, only newer and shinier. But the airport itself has entertainment enough to hold our attention for hours. Last I was there, they were running ten art exhibits."

  "Ten art exhibits? In an airport?" I asked, sure he was pulling my leg.

  "Art exhibits. Prayer rooms. Massage, nails, facials, gyms, showers, and separate male and female sleep rooms."

  "We could have an actual vacation in the airport," I mused, shaking my head at the very idea. I thought the airport back in Jersey was fancy with all its little food shops to buy snacks in.

  At my comment, something different crossed Fenway's eyes, something soft and sweet, almost, I don't know, whimsical. Could people look whimsical? If they could, that was how he looked right then.

  "We can even do some shopping," Fenway offered. "My treat."

  "I already have my luggage."

  "For Paris, I imagine. Not Bali."

  "That's true
," I agreed. I didn't even have a swimsuit packed. Or even appropriate shoes for a beach. "But I pay for myself."

  "We shall see about that."

  "Shall?" I asked, smiling.

  "It's the proper word."

  "Do you ever notice that a lot of times, 'proper' and 'pretentious' go hand-in-hand?"

  "Do you ever notice you get prickly whenever I am being nice?" he shot back, surprising me once again, having previously thought he was the sort to avoid any sort of confrontation. "Who made you believe men are only nice when they plan to screw you over?" he added, tone getting deeper, more serious. In fact, everything about him had switched from lighthearted playboy to a cool, confident, somber man.

  I took a breath, leaning forward a bit. "Every single man I have ever met," I told him, telling him mostly the truth. I knew a few good men. My brothers, their friends, Raven's husband. But let's just say they were few and far between. "Though, if it makes you feel any better, it isn't a sexist statement. Most people are kind to you when they want something from you. But men, almost invariably, only want one thing."

  "And what do women want?"

  "To know where another woman found a dress with sleeves, a pair of heels that don't give them blisters, a bra that doesn't feel like a torture device, for someone to finally recognize their thankless work day in and day out slaving away raising kids and tending house, to be paid the same as their male colleagues, to be able to walk down a street without worrying about predatory hands..."

  "And they don't want sex too?" he challenged, brow arching up.

  "Oh, we love sex," I told him. "But we don't need to be manipulative to get it."

  "You think I am trying to manipulate you into sex?" he asked, tone cold.

  "Wining and dining and private jets and airport shopping sprees and Bali vacations. You're trying to tell me you don't expect something out of all of this?" I challenged him.

  I don't know what I expected. Maybe one of his flip brush-offs, something silly and dismissive.

  I didn't expect for him to unfold from his chair, move across the short aisle, lean over me, and snag my chin in his fingers, angling it up, holding almost unnerving eye contact.

  "I don't need to manipulate a woman to get what I want, darling," he said, the word coming out more like a curse than an endearment. "What you and I know we both want," he added, his other hand slipping between my thighs, pressing against my panties, dragging a surprised, but undeniably turned-on groan from me. What can I say? I played a good game, but I was a sucker for a man who was alpha in bed. His finger swiped, making my hand slap down on the arm of the couch, fingers digging in. "See?" he asked, releasing my chin, pulling his hand out of my skirt, turning, and going into the cockpit.

  Alvy moved out to take the seat Fenway had vacated as I tried to remind my body that it was not part of this scenario, that this was a job, that it didn't matter how hot it was when he turned off the outward mask of light and fun and showed the darker, sexier man beneath, that we could not—under any circumstances—end up in bed.

  "It should just be about another hour and a half before we are in Qatar. If you want an escape route, I can arrange it now," Alvy offered, scanning my face, coming to who-knew-what conclusion about the undoubtedly shocked look they found there.

  "I honestly don't know what I want," I admitted. "I shouldn't even be here."

  "Fenway has that effect on women," Alvy told me, shrugging. "It's that puppy dog side of him he presents to everyone. The enthusiasm can be infectious. And the next thing you know, you're on some mafioso's private vineyard in Italy having dinner across from cold-blooded killers. But then you take a trip to the ladies, get some distance, and the sense seems to return to your head, and you want out."

  "Has that actually happened?"

  "Would you believe more than once?" Alvy asked, shaking their head.

  My gaze moved to the closed cockpit door, imagining the man nestled in the co-pilot seat.

  "Yes, yes I can," I admitted, realizing for the first time that this job wasn't going to be as open-and-shut as I first imagined.

  "Here," Alvy said, pointing to my phone., "Let me give you my number. If you need out, I'm your person. I am always around. And I know my way out of everywhere at this point."

  "God, you make it sound like he runs a cult or something. Oh, Jesus, please tell me he doesn't run a cult."

  To that, Alvy chuckled, revealing a deep dimple in one cheek. "You'd think so, what with the magnetism he has. That is usually reserved for the likes of cult leaders. But no. I think Fenway often appeals to everyone's desire to get away from it all at times, to see the world, to drown in luxury. But, eventually, everyone comes to their senses, realizes that those desires aren't what they truly want. They want to go back to their old lives, their old people."

  "So the women are always the ones who want out? Fenway doesn't get bored with them?"

  Alvy's gaze went to the door, looking at it for a moment before turning back to me.

  "Between the two of us, I think Fenway is deeply lonely. I think he chases one high after another, one woman after another, because he thinks that if he keeps himself busy enough, entertained enough, that he can drown all the unpleasant feelings he might have."

  "Someone as privileged as he is, why wouldn't he just stop and find what he really desires then?"

  "Why are you on a plane with him right now? Why am I? Why does anyone do the things they do that aren't the wisest choices for them? We all have our reasons. Fenway has his too. But that is his place to talk about them. My advice? Enjoy this while you can. Take what you need from it. Then go back and fix the real problem."

  With that, Alvy set to shooting off a rapid-fire text or email, leaving me in silence, pondering their words.

  Alvy couldn't have known my real motive for being on this plane. And none of it had to do with my damage, my personal issues, the things that motivated a lot of my decisions in life.

  But their words did make one thing infinitely clear.

  Fenway, lighthearted, partying, superficial, mega-rich playboy was only part of the whole man. And if I was going to be able to finish this job, I would have to get to know the other sides of him too, the things he masked with the flippant outer layer, the mask he donned to keep anyone from seeing who he truly was.

  Because this wouldn't work if all he did was fall in love at surface level.

  I had to get deeper; I had to set up camp there. He had to get used to, and enjoy, the invasion. And then he needed to know what it was like to have that ripped away, to feel that emptiness.

  It was a slightly more difficult plan, though not impossible.

  As I sat there with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company, though, there was no denying a small, infinitesimally small, stirring of guilt in my chest.

  A stirring that I promptly squashed right down, trying to remind myself that Fenway had undoubtedly done his fair share of lying and defrauding in his life.

  Karma was a belief I held near and dear to my heart.

  And, clearly, he had done something wrong to make a woman pay me to break his heart.

  I felt marginally better about that as we finally made our descent, as we came to a stop, as the stairs opened, and, finally, Alvy instructed me to go down and wait outside, get some fresh air.

  What happened when I did just that was anyone's guess.

  But five minutes later, I heard footsteps behind me, then a hand grabbing mine, swinging it as it dragged me forward with it.

  "You must be famished," he declared. "Shall we go to one sit-down restaurant, or tour the entire building and create our very own buffet?" he asked, still swinging our arms between our bodies as I rushed to keep up with his pace.

  So.

  The Fenway representative was back.

  I was going to get whiplash if he kept changing it up on me.

  "Darling, is everything alright?" he asked, looking over at me.

  My back and ass were killing me from sitting still for so
long. My feet had taken objection to my shoes five minutes after I had strapped them on. And my stomach was growling so hard that I felt nauseated.

  "I was debating my options," I told him instead. No one—especially those of the male persuasion—liked hearing complaints. "What kind of food does the sit-down place serve?"

  "I am going to imagine Qatarian."

  "I'm not sure I know what that means."

  "Me either," he admitted, giving me an uncertain look. "Buffet might be safer."

  "Alright, lead the way," I told him, waving my free arm to the massive glass sloping dome building, making his brows pinch as he looked down at me, trying to figure out the mood change.

  If he was going to keep me on my toes, I had to keep him on his as well.

  "Wait," I said as we got closer to the building. "Shouldn't we wait for Alvy?"

  "Alvy is taking a car to the closest hotel to catch some sleep. Josh will sleep here. But for Alvy..."

  "Separate male and female rooms for rest," I filled in for him.

  "Precisely. Don't worry. We won't leave without Alvy."

  With that, he led me into the airport.

  Where I promptly became a very obvious tourist, wide-eyed and stopping to gape every dozen or so yards.

  Airports in general were massive buildings. This one, though, seemed doubly so. And it wasn't nearly as packed as the airports I had seen in my life. In fact, it probably felt so vast precisely because it was nearly empty.

  Even the rows of seats seemed upscale compared to back home with their burnt orange and black leather seats.

  "What are you thinking right now?" Fenway asked, leading me up toward an escalator.

  "Everything is so clean," I admitted. "And not surface clean. Like when you go to an office and the floor is swept and mopped and the garbage isn't overflowing, but if you look closely, the floorboards are grimy and there is dust on the artificial plant on top of the cabinet. Like every inch of this place is clean."

  "There is a giant yellow stuffed animal exhibit over there, and you are noticing the cleanliness of the baseboards," Fenway teased, but his smile said he was charmed.

  Charmed, I could work with.

  Charmed was one step closer to swooning which was one step closer to love.

  "What can I say, I marvel at the mundane. So what kind of shopping can we do here once we eat?" I asked.