I pick up the glass, swirling the ruby liquid, considering. “Did he ask if you could dance?” He already knew; I wonder how.
Rita blinks at the unexpected question. “No.” She takes a sip of her wine. “It is on my résumé.”
“Is it?” I’d read that. I must’ve forgotten.
“In my interests. I did ballroom and Latin for eight years.” She gives a sigh and sets her wineglass down, then heads toward the bedroom she uses with a sway of her hips. “My feet are killing me and I’m going to change. See you in your study in twenty minutes, and we’ll start these financial models.”
I lean against the counter, staring unseeing after where she disappeared.
Vicky’s been to this apartment a grand total of twice. Once when we had a quiet dinner here, once when we were too tired to return to Westchester after a night out. Rita has a room here, even if I never officially gave it to her. It grew out of convenience, from too many late nights. But she has clothes in there, some of her things, enough to make it a personal space.
Vicky doesn’t know, and for the first time, that gives me a twinge of awkwardness.
Then I brush it aside. Rita’s my Chief of Staff; of course we’re going to have a close working relationship. Vicky understands that.
I leave the bottle and carry my glass into my study,sitting down behind the large mahogany desk, flicking my dual monitors awake. It’s a warmer room than the glass corner office I have at Northbridge, with wood paneling and a thick, dark grey carpet. A dozen sconces with bulbs on dimmer switches let me set the mood I need, but they’re turned up full. I need to be alert to work.
Rita is taking her time. I’m well into the model when she finally enters, and I don’t look up, even when she turns the lights lower. She takes her usual chair opposite my desk and says nothing for a while, letting me concentrate.
Eventually, she breaks the silence. “Why did you ask if I could dance?”
“There’s a social event at the end of the week,” I reply, my mind on the spreadsheet before me. “I need a partner.”
“Do you dance?”
“I do. Not eight years of it, but yes.”
“I bet you move very well.”
I glance up at that. Not merely the words, but something in her tone.
She’s lounging in her chair in a satin bathrobe, one bare leg crossed over the other. Her elbow’s on the armrest, her glass in her hand, watching me from beneath her lashes.
When she said get changed, for some reason I thought sweater and slacks. Not… lingerie. I must be more distracted than I thought. Vicky. The social. Greenstone. Two fingers lying on a table in a pool of their own blood. There’s a lot on my mind.
I lean back in my chair, picking up my untouched wine, and focus my attention on Rita. She’s capable—she wouldn’t be my Chief of Staff if she wasn’t—and I’d be a fool to underestimate her. She’s dangerous, what she’s doing is dangerous, and that damn bathrobe is dangerous too.
“I suppose I could come,” she says, meeting my gaze. “But you haven’t given me much notice.”
“Why, did you have plans?” I know she doesn’t. If she has friends or a social life, she manages it around our work. Weekends included.
“It’s more about finding the right dress.”
I flap a hand dismissively. “Get one tomorrow.” And just like that, Rita’s now accompanying me to the ball. I feel a flare of irritation at Vicky. Her refusal to commit, even though I’ve been clear I want her there.
Tomorrow marks two weeks since her birthday. Two weeks since she left, and she’s still not back. What’s more, she doesn’t look like she’s about to change her mind, either.
Fine. She needs a nudge.
I reach for my phone and pull up the text Julian Serrano sent me just this morning:It’s all ready. Proceed?
I send him back a single word, then focus on my next challenge: keeping Rita close but not too close, without tipping the balance between useful and costly.
Eleven
Vicky
“what?”
