She leans forward and his breathing quickens. “You know what that’s like, don’t you, Jon? Having a hunger? Relentlessly pursuing, taking what you want, what should be yours?”
“Is that how it is for you in banking?”
“It can be a mercenary business.” She traces the back of his hand with her fingers, her gaze locked on his. “What is it that you want right now, Jon, right at this minute? What is it that should be yours for the taking?”
He swallows. His skin goes hotter. “I think you know.”
She angles her head. The candlelight shimmers on her hair. Her green eyes bewitch him. “I mean, beyond sex. What do you feel is missing in your life right now? Because on the surface you seem to have it all, right? Attractive wife with a family fortune to her name. A baby on the way. And resort industry buzz says you’re tipped for the new COO position at Claquoosh Resort when it comes on stream.”
Jon feels a discordant clang in his head at the mention of Daisy, their unborn son, and the job that is no longer guaranteed him. He breaks her gaze and reaches for his drink, sips. For a moment he watches the singer near the grand piano. She’s crooning lyrics about taking risks in love.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I hit a nerve.”
“No. No, it’s fine.” He meets her gaze again.
She leans closer. Jon notices her cleavage. Heat pools in his groin—a throbbing kind of heat that makes him so hard it’s exquisitely painful. She feathers her fingers across the back of his hand again.
“I won’t go there again. Won’t mention your family. I just want to be clear about our parameters, Jon. I’m aware you’re a well-married family man. Yet here you are. And I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot and lead you to believe that there is something more . . . you understand what I mean?”
“I—”
But she silences him with her finger on his lips. “I, too, have a comfortable life.” She hesitates, as though unsure whether to divulge more. “A relationship. I want to keep that relationship intact, yet here I am. But I am clear in my own mind on the reason I’m here. Physical connection, no strings. How about you?”
His heart thuds like a drum. It sends blood pumping through his veins with a rhythmic pulse. It throbs with the same rhythm in his groin. He’s dizzy. Oddly dizzy. Like his entire world is narrowing onto just this siren named Mia in a ruby-red dress, and he can’t seem to think in a bigger picture. He feels woozy.
“Shame thing,” he says. “I mean, same thing. No shtrings.” His words are slurring. How much have they both had to drink anyway? How many drinks did he have at dinner with the clients before he arrived? Still, he feels like another one, and he raises his hand to order refills.
The server replenishes their drinks, and Mia says, as she reaches for hers, “So you want both worlds? Family man and philandering man.”
“Don’t we all want it all?”
She laughs. He watches the pale column of her throat. He can’t seem to think straight at all. He sips from his drink, spilling a little down his front.
“Is talking about your job off limits?” she asks.
Her words hover in front of his mind, then slide away. Jon struggles to pull his brain back into focus. “Talking about my job is fine. It’s—” He laughs. And his laugh sounds funny to his own ears, so he laughs harder, then feels a little ill. He clears his throat and tries to explain. “I laugh becaush it was a done deal, and now . . .” He fades as he loses track of his thought. He sits in silence for a moment, trying to pull himself back into focus, trying to remember what he was saying. He sees two men in an alcove across from him and Mia. Are they watching him? From the shadows. Can’t really make out their faces, but Jon feels watched.
“What was a done deal?”
“What?”
She places her hand on his thigh. Moves it higher toward his groin. Jon suddenly feels uneasy. A little trapped. As if something is going wrong, but his brain is not warning him fast enough. Her hand goes higher, covers his erection.
“Jon,” she whispers, “you’re safe here, with me. It’s our secret. You can talk.”
“It’s nothing. Jusht—the company is conshidering hiring someone of color. Optics. I . . . need to show . . I best viable candidate for—for that posish—position.”
She watches him. His vision is distorted. Her red lips seem larger than they were. Her big eyes more green.
“How will you show them?” She cups his erection, and Jon can barely think with the hot pleasure of her touch.
“I . . . find something—some dirt—that proves rival is bad news.”
“How will you find dirt?” She rubs his erection.
Jon’s vision swirls. He nods. “PI. I hired a PI.”
She smiles. “And who’s this rival, JonJon BergBomber?” she whispers near his ear. The wet tip of her tongue touches his lobe.
“Ah—Ahmed Waheed. Tell me about you, Mia . . . your—”
“Come upstairs with me, Jon.” Her breath is hot in his ear. “I have an Airbnb upstairs. I have a nightcap waiting. We can continue up there. Come.” She takes his hand. “Come with me.”
Jon isn’t sure if he is dreaming, or totally plastered. How many whiskies and beers did he have? He knows he definitely had several shots of tequila before he arrived. He’s lost track.
They’re in the elevator. Kissing. He cups her butt with his hands, pulls her pelvis against his thigh as the elevator climbs, climbs. He can’t remember getting to the elevator. Or into it. Or to her suite. They are backing into her suite. She’s kissing him, her tongue deep inside his mouth.
They’re inside a bedroom. Low bed. Walls of glass that look out over the city lights. What part of the city is this? It looks different. He hasn’t seen this aspect. There’s a flashing pink neon sign. John squints at the pulsating pink sign. CABARET LUXE. He recognizes that sign. He’s taken clients there before. Yes, he realizes where they are. Yaletown area. Trendy. They must be looking out toward False Creek. Mia is undoing his tie, his shirt. Her hands are on his bare chest, sliding his shirt off his shoulders. She’s laughing, pushing him backward onto the bed.
She pulls up her dress, straddles him. Just glass, he thinks as Mia undoes his zipper, only glass windows between him and Mia and all those sparkling lights of the city and all those high-rise condo windows looking back at them. Another vague thought forms in his brain—anyone could be watching them from any one of a million windows . . . then he can think only of what she is doing to his body. Everything else spins away in a blur.
MAL
November 1, 2019. Friday.
“Let me get this straight,” Mal says to Lula on the phone. “Vanessa North claims she’s not pregnant, and she and her husband have been in Singapore for the last six months?”
“Correct. The Norths are both citizens of the Republic of Singapore,” Lula says. “Haruto is a banker with Singapore-Pacific International. He spends a few months each year at the bank’s North American headquarters located in Vancouver, which is when he and his wife plan to reside at the Glass House. They’re due back in January. They were in the house only two months before they left again for Singapore. Vanessa is originally Canadian. She works for an NGO and travels a lot throughout Africa. We’ve confirmed these details with our Interpol liaison. I’m forwarding you photos of the Norths and copies of their passport details. They claim to have no knowledge of what has occurred at their home. They’ve used Holly’s Help since May 1 to maintain their property and keep a check on the gardening service and security system while they’re away. The Norths do not know which specific maid services their home, and say they have not met Kit Darling.”