But there was more to his plan than that. He just didn’t know what. All he knew was that getting Simone and the audit were inextricably bound together. He couldn’t have one without the other, and he had to have Simone.
The doorbell chimed and he tossed the pad back in the drawer. Irritation returned as he glanced at the desk clock: seven twenty-five. Well, at least Tonya was here; he’d get her in and get her out.
Walking back to the foyer, he swung open the front door. Tonya smiled in the porch light, beaming as if he was Denzel Washington. “Hiii-iii,” she sang. To his complete surprise she threw her arms around him for an enthusiastic, undulating hug. The cloying scent of her vanilla perfume invaded his nostrils, and he crinkled his nose.
He gave her a loose hug and then pulled away, always a little uncomfortable with the social niceties. What was the protocol with an ex? Handshake? Hug? He never knew. Her face came closer and he belatedly realized she meant to kiss him. Oh, for crying out loud. Turning his head, he pecked her awkwardly on the cheek and she did the same. Clinging to his forearms, she was all dimples, flashing white teeth and sparkling eyes.
He stared, wondering what was going on. The idea of coming to his house for a drink couldn’t be
this
thrilling. Especially since the last time he saw Tonya, she’d cursed him and his progeny for generations to come. She’d called him names he’d had to look up in the dictionary. Her head had bobbed, her tongue had clicked, and she’d poked him in the chest. Finally she’d stormed out, slammed this very door behind her, and taken off in her car, screeching around the corner on two wheels. And now here she was kissing and hugging him? Smiling at him?
Puzzled, he scratched the back of his neck. “Uh…you look great,” he said, closing the door behind her and holding a hand wide to lead her into the living room. In his jeans and T-shirt, he now felt underdressed in his own house. “Do you have a date later?”
Smoothing the skirt of her clingy black dress, she sashayed down the hall, her high heels drumming on the hardwood floors. “No, silly! This was always your favorite dress!”
Alex cringed at the squeaky voice and searched his memory. He could swear he’d never seen that dress a day in his life. But
Simone
had worn a dress something like this earlier and looked a darn sight better in it. Tonya had a great butt, but she was way too hippy for this dress. Not like Simone at all.
Irritated—why couldn’t he go three minutes without thinking about that woman?—he steered Tonya to the brown leather sofa, where she perched on the edge. Holding his gaze, she crossed her bare legs with much sliding of skin. Leaning forward, she ran one hand down her calf to adjust her shoe strap. Bewildered, he frowned. Had she always been this weird? Had he forgotten?
“Er…would you like some cognac?” He turned to the drink counter in the corner nearest the fireplace, opened the cabinet and pulled out a glass. “Or I’ve got scotch.”
“Brandy’s great.”
Alex splashed cognac in two snifters, passed one to Tonya and then sat on the chair next to the sofa. Tonya put her glass on the coffee table without tasting it. Her gaze traveled around the room, lingering on the new curtains, sofa and chairs. “You’ve decorated since I’ve been here.” She nodded toward the corner, where a ten-foot ficus stood. “The place looks great.”
“Thanks.”
Giggling, she smoothed her sleek black hair behind one ear. “I was so surprised when you called, Alex.” Her brown eyes lowered, almost like she was bashful. Weird again; Tonya was exactly as bashful as a Vegas stripper. “I didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again.”
“I wanted to talk.” Alex sipped his brandy appreciatively and decided to just plow ahead. She could act as strange as she wanted as long as she answered his questions. “I didn’t like the way we left things. I’ve been thinking a lot about our relationship.”
“Really?”
Alex put his drink down and decided to lay all his cards out on the table. “I’m not sure I did everything I should have done for you. You know. In bed.”
“Whaaaat?”
The obvious shock on her face—as if she’d never heard a more ridiculous idea in her life—made him feel much better. Still, he worried a little. The last thing he wanted was to embarrass her, because if she felt uncomfortable, she’d be less likely to tell him the truth.
He reached across the arm of his chair, took her hand and rubbed it in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. Her eyes went wide and she made a tiny surprised sound. “Tell me, Tonya. I really need to know. This is very important to me.”
“Oh, Alex.” A flush stained her cheeks. Her other hand stroked across his and she scooted closer, until their knees touched. “You were the best. No one else can work it like you do.
No one.
”
A huge jolt of relief surged through him. Since he knew Tonya had been with more than her fair share of men, he figured she had quite a basis for comparison. This was
great.
He’d ask her a few more questions, just to be sure, and then he could wrap up the audit and get back to thinking about Simone.
“Are you sure? Because if I’ve been doing something wrong I need to correct it. I don’t want to keep making the same mistakes.”
Her mouth flapped open. “Alex! Did I ever act like I wasn’t enjoying myself?”
Actually, no. She’d writhed and moaned, begged, screamed and shouted. Come to think of it, she’d done everything but a triple back flip when she came, and maybe if he’d stuck around long enough, she’d have done that too. If she’d been acting, she deserved a star on the Walk of Fame
and
an Oscar.
He laughed with relief. “No. You seemed like you were having a pretty good time.” Still chuckling, he picked up his glass again.
With no warning, Tonya’s hand slid up the inside of his thigh and rubbed over his crotch. She slid to her knees in front of him. The cognac turned to vinegar in his mouth.
Vaguely aroused, but nowhere near as aroused as he’d be if Simone knelt in front of him, he grabbed her wrist, stopping her. “What are you doing?”
Bewilderment passed over her features. “I’m doing
you,
” she said, her voice soft and husky. “What’s it look like?”
Uh-oh. Alex had a blinding flash of understanding, quickly followed by alarm. It all made sense now. The hug and kiss. The dress. The looks.
“Tonya, I think I’ve given you the wrong idea,” he said as gently as he could.
Blinking furiously she flinched and looked away, but not before he saw the tears well in her eyes. Why was he so stupid? Stupid, stupid,
stupid.
“Tonya,” he began. “Look. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
Her head whipped back around and her lips mashed together in a thin line he knew and recognized. Now
this
was the Tonya he remembered. “Why did you invite me here?
Why?
”
Alex growled with frustration. He didn’t have time for
this!
Why did
this
always happen to him? The misunderstandings, the recriminations. He went out of his way to be honest with every woman he dealt with, and he always had the same old problems.
“I told you,” he said, holding on tight to the last of his patience. “I wanted us to have a drink so we could talk. We had a drink. We talked. That’s it.”
Tonya hissed with fury, her nails digging into his thigh like a cat’s. Yelping, Alex jumped to his feet, catching her by surprise. She tumbled over backward, landing on her butt. He reached to help her, but she smacked his hand away and stood up by herself, wobbling precariously on her heels.
Her eyes narrowed to reptilian slits. “You wanna talk? Well, let’s talk. I’m about to get ethnic on you.”
He could see that. The pointed index finger, one inch from his nose, as well as the bobbing head and jutting chin had already clued him in. Crossing his arms over his chest, he resigned himself to his fate and said nothing. Really, this was no more than he deserved for being stupid enough to conjure up this demon. Having exorcised her from his life once already, he had no excuse for inviting her back.
“You ain’t nothing, Alex,” she shrieked. “You know why?”
Answering never even crossed his mind.
“Because you don’t care about anybody but yourself! You never
talked
to me! You never
understood
me! You never
cared
for me!”
Her voice got loud and rhythmic, like a Southern Baptist minister crescendoing at the end of his sermon. “You don’t know nothin’’bout dealin’ wit a woman. You don’t have a clue!”
You’re clueless.
Jarred out of his stupor, Alex stared at her. This was the second time he’d heard that today. Maybe there was something to the accusation.
Grabbing her upper arm, he squeezed it. “You see?” he cried. “This is good information! What am I clueless about? I really want to know!”
Tonya’s mouth fell open and she clapped both hands to her cheeks, doing a remarkably good imitation of “The Scream.” With a final outraged screech, she wrenched herself free. Whirling, she snatched her purse and took off down the hall as fast as her legs would carry her, muttering all the way.
His old friend frustration welled in his throat.
Wonderful.
Nothing he could say, obviously, would make Tonya stay and answer more questions. Well, fine. She could leave.
But at the door she stopped and pivoted to face him, to his everlasting dismay. Furious tears shimmered in her eyes. “Forget you, Alex!” she shouted.
In a flash she was out the door and gone, her BMW skidding around the corner and out of sight. Alex watched her go, then slowly, sadly shut the door behind her.
His first audit, obviously, had
not
been a success.
Chapter 5
D
owntown, Simone wandered aimlessly through her cavernous apartment, feeling like the only person on the planet. Pushing aside the heavy drapes, she stared out at the glittering city lights against the night sky. The beautiful view only increased her feelings of loneliness and isolation. With nothing else to do, she collapsed on the sofa, arranged a cashmere throw over her lap, and cursed her apartment.
Oh, how she hated it here.
An airy, fifth-floor downtown loft, with the open bedroom perched on a platform a few steps above and behind the living room, dining room and kitchen, had seemed like a wonderful, sophisticated idea when she signed the lease two years ago. Lately, though, the walls had started to close in on her.
This wasn’t
home.
She didn’t know where
home
was, but this drafty apartment with nothing green visible from the windows sure wasn’t it. One more Christmas in this sterile, soulless modern apartment would surely drive her right over the edge. Maybe she should give her real estate agent another call. Yeah. First thing in the morning.
The wall clock said ten-fifteen, and she was no more relaxed than she’d been when she came home at six. Miles Davis’s trumpet wailed from her strategically placed speakers, but she didn’t hear it. Aromatherapy candles—soothing Clean Cotton to help her unwind and get ready for sleep—burned on the boxy coffee table and fireplace mantle, but she didn’t smell them. Nor did she notice the tart taste of her favorite champagne, an expensive, though rare, indulgence that seemed indicated tonight. Soaking in foamy, green-tea scented bubbles for half an hour hadn’t relaxed her, nor had sliding into her silk nightgown and robe. She was, in short, as edgy and anxious as she’d been at noon today, and she knew the reason why.
Alex Greene had ruined her life.
Well, maybe
ruin
was a little strong. But he’d certainly turned it upside down, hadn’t he? With his threats, accusations and Web site. With his infuriating arrogance. With his piercing, smoldering eyes.
With his touch.
Shivering, Simone rubbed her hands up and down her arms to wipe away her body’s memory of his fingers gliding over her skin. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. Wonderful. This was just
wonderful.
She was attracted to Satan.
The phone rang, jarring her. She snatched it up. “Hello?”
“It’s Mom, Simone. Can I come up?”
She sounded funny, as if she’d been crying. Alarmed, Simone ran to her apartment door and pressed the wall buzzer to unlock the outer door downstairs. “Of course! Are you okay?”
No answer. Simone tossed the phone aside and, when she heard her mother’s quick footsteps outside her door, threw it open.
Shirley Beaupre rushed in, her black waist-length, store-bought hair flowing after her. As always, the strong fragrance of Chanel No. 5’s unidentifiable flowers preceded her. The yeasty smell of alcohol also came with her, never a good sign.
Tears shimmered in Shirley’s kohl-rimmed eyes, but she smiled and pulled Simone in for a tight hug anyway. “Come here, baby darling.”
“Happy birthday, Mama.”
Worried, Simone clung to her mother’s fragile shoulders. Other mothers brought cookies or houseplants when they came to visit. Shirley brought drama. She began and ended every conversation with what exciting and/or tragic events had recently happened in her life, and obviously this discussion would be no different.
Simone pulled free, helped Shirley out of her black satin cape and turned to hang it on the coat rack by the door. “I’ve been calling you all day. Did you get my flowers? Where’ve you been?”
Turning back, Simone had a jolting glance at her mother in the harsh entry light. Wow. She seemed old all of a sudden. Sixty today, and she looked every second of it.
The trim, well-exercised body poured into a low-cut, strapless black cocktail dress would do any sixty-year-old proud, if one ignored the crepe of her saggy bosom. But the curled, tousled midnight hair was a problem. Shirley steadfastly refused to shorten it, despite Simone’s argument that such long hair on a woman her age was an abomination.
Worse was the papery brown skin, crinkled with fine lines under the mask of makeup. And the dark, ringed eyes with muddy deposits of concealer underneath them looked ancient.