Masked Innocence, Page 2

  “Stop smirking at me.” I spoke through a half-eaten carrot, hoping that my mental drool-fest hadn’t shown in my face, which I fixed into an irritated scowl.

  “I’ll smirk at you until you tell me what I have done wrong. I assure you, I have not fucked anybody since you left my house last night.” He leaned back, placing his hands in his pockets, his legs spread. He looked relaxed, which was the last thing I wanted him looking.

  Our waitress, an overall-wearing blonde, swung by and I handed her the menu, requesting the soup and a glass of ice water. Then I took him out of his not-even-present misery and reached into my bag, pulling out the spreadsheet Rebecca had emailed me and slapping it onto the table.

  He leaned forward, his hands still in his pockets, and glanced at the document before leaning back and shrugging. “So?”

  “So? That’s your response? Do you know what this is?”

  “Yeah. It’s the questionnaire. Rebecca sends it to all of the important women in my life.” He gave me a grin that indicated that I should thank my lucky stars and dance around hugging myself, so grateful that he graced me with receiving his ridiculous spreadsheet. I wanted to take the hummus and shove it all over his face.

  “Let me read this shit to you, Brad. Birthday, time of monthly cycle, favorite authors, favorite clothing store, shoe size, bra size, name of four closest friends, favorite band—”

  “Where are you going with this, Julia?” he interrupted my rant, which was too bad, because I was just getting to the good stuff.

  “I’m not telling her—or you—all this shit! This is Lazy Boyfriend 101. This is her cheat sheet so that she can buy all the right presents at all of the appropriate times! Text you during social events, reminding you of my friends’ names. This is the stuff we are supposed to discover about each other during dates—things that you are supposed to care enough to find out, and then remember!” I slammed my hand on the table, the noise loud in the small restaurant.

  He didn’t move, studying me from his seat, his head tilted as his eyes burned through me. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  He shrugged. “Okay. I’ll tell her to throw away the list, as far as you are concerned. You’re right.”

  My mouth threatened to drop open again. That was easy. From the man whom I had expected to fight me tooth and nail, on principle and stubbornness alone.

  My astonishment must have shown; he gave a quick laugh and leaned forward. “Rebecca doesn’t know, okay? I told her I was dating someone, and she probably assumed you are like the other girls. I don’t need that list, I know half the shit on it already and will know the rest soon enough. Forget it. I’ll talk to Rebecca and make sure she leaves you alone from here on out.” He grinned at me, reaching across the table and grabbing my arm. “Now, am I forgiven?”

  I tried to glare at him, but my anger had abandoned me somewhere around his admittance of fault. My face contorted in a variety of expressions before I finally returned his grin, accepting the tug of his hands and meeting him across the table for a quick, panty-melting kiss.

  We parted, the connection broken, and he grinned at me as he settled back into his chair.

  “What?” I asked warily, leaning back as the waitress set my soup down.

  “Boyfriend.” My quizzical look caused him to elaborate. “Lazy Boyfriend 101—you referred to me as your boyfriend.”

  My soup steamed hot before me, and I broke saltines into it and stirred, avoiding his cocky stare. “You’re reading too much into my word choice—I was trying to explain, in simple caveman terms, your gross error in judgment.”

  “I’m ready to be exclusive.”

  The statement surprised me, and I looked up to find his eyes on me, serious and intense. “Really? Now?”

  “Yes, now. We had wanted to see if you were okay with my sexual lifestyle. You’ve had a chance to experience it, you enjoyed it, so let’s move on.”

  “Together,” I said, my word more of a question than a declaration.

  “You seem to have trouble grasping this concept.”

  “I have no problem grasping the concept. I’m just shocked you are pushing the subject. You seem like the type to run from commitment, not seek it out.” I took a sip of soup and watched as he shifted in his seat.

  “Julia, what I said to you three weeks ago in the stairwell was true. I don’t like being alone. While I enjoy the flirtations of being single, I would prefer to be in a committed relationship.”

  I grinned at him. “So the promise of a relationship wasn’t just to trick me into ditching my inhibitions?”

  He had the good grace to look wounded, reaching over and tugging on my hand. He brought it up to his mouth, kissing it gently and looking at me. “I am a man of my word, and ready to commit fully to you. With the obvious exceptions.”

  “The exceptions being our group sex partners, not random women you screw on the side.”

  His mouth twitched under my fingers and he nodded, returning my hand. “Correct.”

  “Fine, I’ll accept your offer of servitude,” I said, glancing at him while blowing on the soup, his amusement visible through the steam. “Since that grants me the power of possession, exactly how many women does Rebecca have a dossier on?”

  He shrugged. “Not many. I’ve had five or six extended flings that have stretched for a few months. Rebecca has files on those women.”

  I growled through the first spoonful of soup, wanting to march up to her office right now and feed those spreadsheets through the shredder myself. Not that I, with my still-had-the-tags-on-it new relationship, had any right to be territorial. “Well, I was going to hire a pushy assistant and have him, for the sake of invasiveness, send you an STD pee kit, but I guess I’ll cancel that, seeing as you have agreed to drop the questionnaire and keep your pit bull of an assistant at bay.” I grinned at him and dipped my spoon back in the bowl.

  “Oh....speaking of that.” The hesitancy in his voice caused me to look up, my body tensing at whatever disaster was lurking.

  “Speaking of what?”

  “STD tests.” Crap. I was afraid that’s where he was headed. “If you are going to be part of this lifestyle, we need to get you tested.”

  Never mind, not where I thought he was headed. “Me?” The incredulity in my voice caused another grin to cross his face.

  “Yes, oh patron saint of virtue. You. I know you are probably clean, but for future planning purposes, and in order to get access to the elite clubs and parties, we have to know for sure, and be able to provide documentation.” He lowered his voice, leaning forward. “Everyone, and I mean everyone, wears condoms, but you have to be clean in order to participate. Do you have a doctor that you use?”

  Gynecologist. That had been one of the blanks on Rebecca’s spreadsheet, and I had planned on its being my argument’s grand finale—a shining example of the utter invasion of privacy that the questionnaire had been. Now it made a little more sense.

  “Yeah,” I muttered, scooping up a combination of noodles and vegetables.

  “Do you mind?”

  “Not particularly. I mean, I want everyone else there tested, but...” My mouth curved on its own, my own mind realizing the double standard that was about to come out of my lips. “No. I need to do it anyway. I’m due for an annual exam.” I glanced at my watch, swearing at the time. “Damn, I gotta go.” I stood, grabbing my bag, and leaned over, kissing him briefly before glancing at the table.

  “I got it, babe. Go. Call me when you’re done for the day.”

  I thanked him with my smile, trotting out the front and onto the downtown sidewalk. I made a mental note to call my gyno and see if I could get in to see her this week. As I stood at the busy street and waited to cross, I realized that I hadn’t mentioned the job offer that Broward had extended.

  Five

  The invitation came, as so many did, by private messenger, a tuxedoed male with the bone structure of a model. He wound through the halls of Clarke, De Luca & Broward with famil
iar ease, taking the elevator to the fourth floor and swinging through the heavy doors of the East Wing. Approaching the elevated semicircle of secretarial desks, he stopped in front of the middle one, waiting patiently until the elegant women raised her silver head and looked at him.

  “Yes? What can I help you with, sir?”

  “I have a courier item for Mr. De Luca, ma’am.”

  “You can hand it over. I’ll be sure that he gets it.”

  “I apologize, but I am under strict instructions to deliver it only to Mr. De Luca.”

  The woman pursed her lips, fixing him with a stern gaze that did nothing to alter the confident grin on his face. “I believe you have been here before, Mr....”

  “Martin. And yes, I have made deliveries here before.”

  “Then, Mr. Martin, you are quite aware that Mr. De Luca is a very busy man. I will try to reach him via phone, but if I fail, you will have the option of leaving the item with me or returning at another time. I will not have you wandering around this lobby waiting for his return, understood?”

  His grin still in place, he nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She turned, the wrinkles in her neck smoothing for one moment, and placed the phone to her ear.

  * * *

  BRAD WAS MIDSWING in the third stroke of a par four when his cell rang, vibrating inside his pocket, the one distraction he didn’t need at that point in time. He swore loudly as he watched the ball fade to the right, headed exactly where it shouldn’t, a loud splat confirming his error. He yanked his phone from his pocket and glanced at the display. “De Luca.”

  “Mr. De Luca, there is a gentleman here, a Mr. Martin, who has an item that he will only deliver to you.”

  “Let me talk to him, please.”

  There was a rustle, silence, then, “Hello?”

  “This is Brad De Luca. Who is the item from?”

  “Beverly Franklin, sir.”

  Brad chuckled. “Okay. Just a moment.” He lifted his chin, going through the possibilities, then came to a decision.

  “I’m going to give you a set of instructions, but I want to make sure that the secretary in front of you does not hear them. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Leave the wing you are in and return to the elevator banks. There will be an entrance there for the West Wing—Kent Broward’s name will be visible on the door. Enter there and ask for Julia Campbell. You can deliver the item to her. Just her.”

  “Gotcha, Mr. D. See you later, sir.”

  “Thank you.” He hung up the phone and approached the cart, nodding to the three men standing there. He would give anything to see Julia’s face when she opened the card.

  I WAS ELBOW deep in transcript review when Chace Crawford, in a tuxedo, appeared in my doorway. Okay, so it wasn’t the Chace Crawford, but enough of a lookalike for me to momentarily forget Drueit vs. Pace Contracting, which was a feat unto itself. I collected myself and waved him in.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Julia Campbell.”

  “I’m Julia.” I stood, stepping forward and shaking the hand he extended.

  “I’m Jeff Martin. I have a couriered item for Mr. De Luca, but he isn’t in. He said that I could give it to you.”

  I looked at the embossed envelope he extended, my fingers reaching out and taking it before my mind had a chance to process the situation. “Thank you,” I said, smiling at him.

  “Certainly.” He gave a small bow and smiled, turning and leaving the room.

  I sat back down, leaning the envelope against my computer monitor and staring at it for a brief moment. Being Brad’s girlfriend was turning into a full-time job.

  I ignored the envelope and returned to the depositions, reading line after line of transcripts until my contacts started to dry out and I leaned back to take a break. The envelope stared at me, beautiful calligraphy dancing beneath exhausted eyes. I reached for my phone and called Brad’s cell.

  * * *

  BRAD PARKED HIS cart, tipping the bag-drop boy and stepping up the wide steps of the hundred-year-old clubhouse. It had been built at a time when opulence and masculinity ruled the design world, and every ounce of the building reeked of old money and tradition. He walked through the wide hall, oil paintings and trophy cases, seeing his group of friends at the entrance to the cigar bar. His phone rang and he paused, glancing down and seeing Julia’s name. That took longer than expected. He smiled, holding up a finger to the men and stepped aside, leaning against the wall and answering the call.

  “Hello, beautiful.”

  “Hey. You got something.”

  “And...did you open it?” He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her response.

  “No,” she said indignantly. “It has your name on it.”

  “Well, I had the courier bring it to you for a reason. It’s an invitation to a party.”

  “And...?”

  God, the woman was feisty. “And I’d like you to come with me.”

  She sighed into the phone. “As your secret girlfriend, I think I’m exempt from any of the boring social events you old people go to.”

  Brad smiled at her words, moving off the wall and stepping forward. “It’s an orgy.”

  Her breath caught, and he wished he were having this conversation in person. “Oh.”

  “But...if that’s too dull and old-mannish for you, I can invite someone else.”

  She hissed into the phone, “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Oh, I most definitely would.”

  There was silence for a minute and Brad stopped walking and waited.

  “Where’s the party?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Humor me.”

  “I’m assuming it’s at the hosts’ home. In Irongate.”

  “Oooh...fancy. Do you know anyone who will be there?”

  “I know the hosts. They typically throw a relatively small party, fifteen or twenty couples, a few singles. There will be group play and private rooms. If you feel up to it, we could just observe, maybe hook up with a single or a couple in a private room if you want. Or we can just stop in, let you see how it works and leave.”

  There was a pause, rustled papers, then an abrupt response. “Okay.”

  Her agreement came quicker than he expected, and he grinned into the phone.

  “Okay. You officially have a date. Read the invitation. We’ll talk later.” He smiled into the phone, then looked up as one of his friends walked by, slapping him on the shoulder. “I have to go.”

  “Okay. Wait!” The urgency in her voice made him pause.

  “What?”

  “It’s this week, which doesn’t exactly give me time to shop. What’s the dress code?”

  “Something sexy. No panties.” He hung up the phone and walked forward, sliding it into his pocket.

  * * *

  I MURMURED SOME form of parting and hung up the phone, flipping the envelope over and running my fingers over the wax seal. I grabbed a letter opener and worked it gently under the flap, careful not to rip the paper as I opened it. I slid out a card, stiff and folded, Brad De Luca printed in perfect calligraphy on the front. Dropping the envelope, I opened the card, almost afraid of what was inside.

  Big surprise, an invitation. I pushed away from my desk, spinning the chair in a small circle as I read it.

  Well, this is convenient. Twenty-four hours after Brad mentions a sex party, a hot man shows up in my office, envelope in hand. I tapped the invitation against my desk and thought. I had shot out a response to Brad, not really thinking through the implications of what I was signing up for. I wasn’t ready for this. A threesome was one thing. A masked orgy was something entirely different. I had to remember what Brad had said. We could just stop in, see how it works and leave. I could handle that. Piece of cake.

  Six

  Broward kept me at the office until ten that night, and every night that week, promising me a short day on Friday. Friday, the night of the party. It l
oomed, mysterious and expectant before me, and I was filled with equal parts anticipation and nerves. By the end of the week I was exhausted, having stumbled inside my house each night, ignoring the crowds that sometimes filled my living room, even the sounds of Zach’s thumping bass failing to delay my immediate slumber. I’d spoken to Brad sporadically, quick conversations squeezed in between Broward’s incessant orders, and Brad kept me fed and hydrated, sending in catered meals every night. The evening deliveries raised more than a few eyebrows, but as soon as everyone realized there was enough to share, the brows dropped and chewing began.

  I was able to sneak out for a doctor’s visit on Wednesday, a nerve-racking thirty minutes in which my most private areas were explored and a vial of blood was drawn, with results promised in twenty-four hours. I returned unnoticed, the never-ending pile of work marginally bigger. Broward was abnormally irritable, working with his door closed, moving files out of my line of sight when I would enter his office. Something was wrong, but I couldn’t figure out which case was the source of his angst. From my side, everything seemed to be moving smoothly. He didn’t mention my job future once, a fact I was grateful for, since I hadn’t had time to come to a decision. Thursday, the doctor’s office called, giving me a clean and unencumbered bill of health. And, before I knew it, it was Friday at 6:00 p.m. and I was stepping outside, the dusk light unfamiliar, Broward’s promise of an early day fulfilled. I walked through the garage, glancing toward Brad’s spot, bare pavement meeting my quick-to-roll eyes. Shocker.