“Stop sighing,” Edward said across the table. “I don’t believe it for a second. I’m not going to fall for it again.”
We were sitting in the study, at a folding table we’d moved directly in front of the fire, where for the past hour we’d been playing strip poker. Caesar the sheepdog was stretched out on a rug beside us, ignoring us, clearly disgusted by the whole thing. I sat half-naked in my chair, wearing only panties, a bra, knee socks and Edward’s tie. Which probably sounds grim, where strip poker is concerned. But Edward had only his silk boxers left. He was sweating.
“Where did you learn to play like this?” he demanded, staring down fiercely at his own cards.
“Madison taught me,” I said sweetly. “We used to play all the time.”
His scowl deepened. “I might have known Madison was at the bottom of this.”
“Yeah.” I looked down at my own cards. I didn’t even have a particularly good hand, but due to my confidence—and the straight flush I’d had in the last round—he believed I might. Nothing except a miracle could save him now. Madison had taught me this much about acting—how to bluff.
Madison. I missed her, in spite of everything. I’d called my stepfather on Christmas, on set in New Mexico, where he was filming the latest season of his highly regarded cable TV zombie series. I would have tried to call Madison too, except Howard let me know she’d just left for some ashram in India, to cope with her explosively public breakup with Jason.
“She could use a friend, kiddo,” Howard had told me quietly.
“She doesn’t want to talk to me,” I’d mumbled. “She hates me.”
“No, sweetie, no. Well, maybe. But I think the person she hates most right now is herself.”
Edward’s cell phone rang, rattling violently across the table, drawing me out of my reverie.
“Saved by the bell,” I murmured. “Don’t think it will save you. Those boxers will be mine...”
But he was no longer listening. His jaw was tight as he answered the phone. “Rupert. What the hell do you want?”
Rising to his feet, he kept the phone to his ear as he stalked back and forth across the study, barking angry words into the phone—words I didn’t understand, like EBITDA, proxy fight, flip-over and poison pill. Whatever it meant, it made Edward so angry that he utterly forgot me sitting half-naked in the chair, staring up at him, wearing his tie. He just paced back and forth in front of the fire. Caesar lifted his head and watched his master walk to and fro, as bewildered and alarmed as I was.
“And I’m telling you,” Edward bit out, “if you don’t pull this together the shareholders will never forgive...no, it was not my fault. I set it on target. It was fine in September.” He paused, then strode five steps before turning. His pace was almost a stomp as he said acidly, “Oh, I’m sorry, was it inconvenient to the company that I had to take a few months off when I nearly died? Even half-dead, I’m twice the man you...” He halted, grinding his teeth. “No, you listen to me....” A curse came from his lips that made me flinch. “If the deal is falling apart, you’re the one to blame, and the board of directors will see—” He stopped. His shoulders looked so tight that I was afraid of what he might be doing to the muscles of his shoulders and spine. He ground his teeth. “I know what you’re doing, you bastard, and it won’t work. St. Cyr Global belongs to me....”
I couldn’t listen anymore. Sliding miserably off the chair, I grabbed my clothes that had been flung so eagerly to the floor. Shivering, though I was near the roaring fire, I pulled his tie off my throat. Edward’s eye caught me, now standing in front of the enormous fireplace that was taller than me, and his expression briefly lightened as his eyes approvingly traced the scarlet lace bra and panties that had been a Christmas gift. From me to him. His forehead furrowed into a frown as, without answering his smile, I turned away and silently pulled on my long cotton sweater and black knit leggings.